From bad to worse

Carl was home from work today, having Mondays and Tuesdays off. Our homeschool schedule coincides with his his work schedule so that we can spend that family time together (nice perk). We decided to browse a few thrift stores (though Carl would definitely debate that "we" decided this). I want to say all was well and we had a nice time in each other's company. We did, sort of,...for awhile,...in certain moments throughout the day,.............

Oh, alright already. It was less than perfect and I ended up popping a few Exedrin just to keep the migraine monster at bay. Allow me to recreate some "special" moments for you.

It began with a hissy fit from Reece because he realized he wasn't going to be eating seafood for lunch. My son is a seafood lover in the grandest sense; baked salmon, breaded shrimp, and crab legs. He especially loves crab legs, which, by the way, has significantly lowered my own crab leg consumption. I find myself feverishly cracking shells open while he eats the meat as fast as I crack. To watch me, you'd think I was trying to meet some insane production quota. The things parents do for their children.

Anyway, we were driving down the road and Reece spots the gutter of seafoods, Long John Silvers. He immediately began begging us to stop.
"Long John Silvers! I looooOOOve Long John Silvers. Turn, Daddy. Tuuuurrrrrnnnn!"

Well, daddy didn't turn so Reece did some turning of his own. He turned into a whining, crying, very disappointed little boy as we passed his establishment of choice. Now, not that we were looking to appease him, but his spirits immediately lifted when he found out he was going to eat at his second favorite place.
That is, we ended up at a P.Y.O.F. ("pick your own food" as our kids call it), a Chinese buffet. Now, I don't know about you but, for me, buffets are like the devil's dining room. I mean, is it at all possible to eat at any buffet without committing the sin of overindulgence? C'mon! I don't think so. But hey, we did it for the kids (Uh, nope, that excuse still doesn't make me feel any better as I type it out for you now).

Okay, so we rolled strolled out of the buffet and began our shopping. The kids were more tired than usual and needed frequent reminders about their behavior. Carl had the baby (who was sleeping; how rough), while I had Reece in the cart seat, Cierah in the back of the cart (and not at all happy about it) and Olivia walking with me. It wasn't the most relaxed afternoon we ever spent together and it was about to get a bit worse.

I was looking at some books when, out of my peripheral vision, I spotted some sort of repetitive motion in the cart. Just as I turned to see what it was, 4 year old Cierah encouraged 5 year old Reece to try it, "it" being the most disgusting action, that of licking the shopping cart. Licking it!!! Fighting back multiple rounds of Chinese "pick your own", I quickly ended that little germ infested moment of fun. How entirely gross is that? (Don't you dare answer.) And I can't get the repulsive image out of my mind; her tongue on those dirty metal bars (which translated to several rounds of P.Y.O.F. heartburn for me).

Have you ever become nauseated on an amusement park ride, dying to get off and head to the nearest bathroom to play the cookie toss, only to be told, "Please remain seated until the ride comes to a complete stop"? If so, you're getting the gist of my day. You see, the "ride" was not yet over in spite of the nauseating scene that had just taken place. Unfortunately, the worst was yet to come.

Brandon woke up in a pleasant mood, smiling at anyone who noticed. I myself was having a lovely moment with him when he gave me the international symbol for "I'm about to blow," a.k.a. the red-faced grimace (grimace: distortion of the face to express an attitude or feeling). He was distorting his face alright, and it was definitely based on a "feeling", the feeling of a diaper gone bad.

Not to worry. I told Carl I would be right back as Brandon and I headed off to the ladies room for a diaper change. A quick calculation tells me there have been about 13,600 diaper changes in our household since our first child was adopted. I was about to go through the normal routine yet again, diaper duty #13,601. I made my way through the restroom door, pleased to find a changing station. I've always gotten my knickers in a twist over a public restroom with no place to change a baby. We parents have to get reaaally creative when that happens. And I've often thought that a copy machine would make a nice "plan B" changing station, what with its flat scanning bed and all. Well let me tell you, I nearly got my wish. Are you ready for what the thrift store provided for liners?
11x14 white copier paper! Uh huh, did too! I could not believe it. I was actually about to change my sweet boy on the blank page. With no other choice, I grabbed a sheet of legal sized and began.

Then it hit me, a most rancid smell. I thought, 'That can't be Brandon,...can it?' I was about to accept that he had gone way overboard to fill this particular diaper when I concluded that it could not possibly be him. Feeling as though I were on Candid Camera, I peaked in the first stall. Nothing. The next, nothing. The final stall,....Euewwwwww! There it was, the faulty plumbing. Nasty, nasty, nasty! Almost simultaneously, it occurred to me that I was hot, reaaaally hot. The space reeked and the heat was cranked up to "pass out" intensity; not a good combination. In a dizzying frenzy, I determined to make a speedy diaper change and get out of Poopsville.

I neatly got the requisite two wipes into position so I would not have to search for them once Brandon's dirty bottom was exposed. I also opened up a clean diaper and had it ready to go as well.
Tabs off.
Fold front of diaper over the mess, toward back of diaper.
Begin.
Yep, it was a doozy. Grabbing the first wipe, I quickly swabbed his bottom, wishing I had laid out a third wipe for my now beading forehead. One wipe barely got us going, so I reached for my back up wipe,........ut oh! Where is the back up wipe? It was right here. Realizing I had not dropped it and it was not to be found, I concluded I must have accidentally grabbed both wipes during the first messy sweep. Charming, now what?

My left hand was holding two chubby ankles (if you can call them ankles; they're buried in a roll of baby fat). My right hand surely had poo residue on it. The bathroom smelled like a pig farm on a humid summer day and baby Brandon was just a smiling and cooing away at me as I fought to maintain consciousness in the blazing heat and stench. And still our ordeal was not over.

As I attempted to reach in my diaper bag (looking pathetically like a child trying to remove the funny bone during Operation), it happened. Brandon decided he wasn't finished yet and ol' Mt. Saint Smellin' began erupting again.

Oh nooOOOOoo! Remember, I had folded the diaper over when I began. There was no where for the mess to accumulate, except on the 11x14 below.
I was defeated.
I had made it through 13,600 previous diaper changes but this time I was defeated.
Brandon was a mess.
I was somewhat green from the nausea.
And it occurred to me as I stood there that Carl was the one who had been pushing Brandon around the store. So just how did I end up in this special moment? (Carl's sly.) An additional twelve wipes later, I was finished and gasping for fresh air. It's moment I might never recover from and one don't wish to repeat.

Well, I'm off to visit family for a few days so I'll catch up with you on Sunday or so. Have a great week!