Shit Happens

Sooooo… Princess Punk’s psychiatry appointment did not happen. My Mom actually got excused from jury duty (heh… duty) and was able to pick up The Princess from school and drive to my place of employment. Then all us girls piled into her car and drove to Burlington for the appointment and some QT afterwards. Which was kinda nice. Driving on 89 in an endless one-lane “road work zone” where there were no “road workers” to be seen, The Peach started fussing. Then she started crying. Then she started screaming. Then… We smelled it.

“Hon, could you just check and see if she needs a change?”


“Well, I didn’t tell you to stick you hand in her diaper.”

“Are you kidding? No WAY. She has poop down her LEG. Ewwwwwwwww…”

Oh. My. God.

Such a nice place...

Such a nice place…

I don’t think this child has had a blowout of this magnitude since she was very very small. And then, because she was very very small, it wasn’t quite so gross.  We were just past exit 11 which, thankfully is only a mile or so away from one of the very few State of Vermont rest stops. Apparently the governer decided that closing down a few of them would help save tax dollars. Obviously Governer Shumlin has never spent 20 minutes in a car with a screaming toddler soaked in poop from her chest to her ankles.

 Thankfully, since the Williston rest stop was kept open, we only spent about 5. Parked, took her out of the car seat and went to carry her in, then took a look at her ruffled purple sweatpants that were soaked with brownish liquid all the way down to her purple edged socks and though better of it. Instead, I put her down and she wobbled gingerly into the bathroom with me shuffling behind her with the diaper bag praying there were enough wipes to clean her up. Took her clothes off and decided, Fuck it and stood her up in the sink. Thank God for the State of Vermont putting time and effort into designing a nice, clean, spacious bathroom. Sorry we got poop in the sink. My Mom did clean it out, but still…

No indication as to what is lurking inside...

No indication as to what is lurking inside…

20 minute impromptu bath, clean diaper, clean clothes and back on the road. Somewhere in that hustle, Princess Punk went into the bathroom to wash her hands and (presumably) pee and dropped yet another cell phone into the toilet.

Princess Punk’s doctor appointment was a lost cause at that point so we just headed to the fabric store as planned. My Mom got her thread and we buckled back into the car. Headed back towards Williston to hit Babies R Us for a case of diapers.

“Oh Moooooooommmm… I think she pooped again.”

“Is it out of her diaper again?”

“Uh, Yeah, I can see it on her leg, it’s all… wet.”

Got to Babies R Us where I rushed back to the Mommy’s Room, a lovely little room next to the bathroom with a small couch and a full changing table and an actual diaper pail. I was carrying her held out away from me, hooked under the armpits, at a speed that was not quite a run, but fast enough to blow her hair back. The baby registry lady took one look as I rushed past, smiled and said, “Blowout?”

Uh… Duh.

No bath this time just a thorough wipe up and another clothing change. I brought The Peach back to My Mom and The Princess happily shopping the baby clothes.

“Take her.”

“Mom, c’mere look, you have to see these they are so CUTE”

While the tiny pink Crocs with the sparkly hearts on them were absolutely adorable, I scowled at The Princess, held up my hands and said, “Poop. On my hands. POOP. I am going to go wash my hands now. Thank you.”

The rest of the day passed without incident. Apparently The Peach had gotten whatever it was out of her system and by the time we had dinner (thank you again for taking us out to eat Mom, it was really, REALLY nice) she spent the entire meal telling anyone within earshot (i.e. the entire restaurant) how much better she felt. Except the waiter. Who was a trainee. I felt bad for the poor guy, every time he came near us she’s holler at the top of her lungs,


I think she may have been saying “Daddy.” The guy did have glasses on like The Zen Master.

Yeah, that’s it. My baby isn’t a homicidal maniac… Oh. Wait…


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Trackback: Holy SPAM! | newlifeinvermont

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