Recently, Iva Ursano tagged me in a fun game of self-deprecation. Here’s her hilarious tale for those who haven’t read it yet:
And now, I present for your amusement an epic tale of a diaper that just wanted to be changed.
If you have a sensitive stomach, you have been warned.
My son (let’s call him Super Diaper for the purposes of this story) began wearing a DOC band at around 9 months of age. DOC bands are those adorable, often sticker-covered helmets you see babies wearing sometimes. Super Diaper’s was blinged out with R2-D2 merch.
What the heck is a DOC band for? Think of them as braces for the skull — when babies have a serious preference for sleeping with their head turned to one side, part of their tiny skull can become as flat as a pancake (which can lead to serious health problems down the road). The bands, when worn continuously over a period of many months, produce nearly perfect, spherical little heads.
Anyway, at our very first appointment with the skull clinic, I picked Super Diaper up early from daycare so as to make a timely appearance. The daycare staff assured me that he had been freshly diapered. Perhaps you can guess where this is leading…
We had just checked into the clinic and settled ourselves in the waiting area when Super Diaper released a gargantuan amount of poo into his previously pristine diaper. It was the blowout to end all blowouts. Elephants have produced less poop during the course of a week.
I kept calm, collected Super Diaper and the diaper bag, and tried to sneak past the receptionist to head down the hall and into the restroom.
“There’s no changing table in there!” she called after me.
How can there be no changing table in a clinic full of babies? I wondered but continued on my mission to change that diaper. I had made do in much more rustic conditions, after all.
Once ensconced within the cozy bathroom, I realized with horror that THERE WERE NO DIAPERS IN THE DIAPER BAG.
A primal scream of Nooooooooooooooooo! came close to escaping my lips, but I reigned it in.
I cleaned Super Diaper using every last wipe I had, then moved on to paper towels which I threw, along with his biohazard clothing, into a trash can roughly the size of a teacup.
Since necessity is the mother of invention, I fashioned a diaper out of a spare onesie and prayed to the diapering gods that the horrible fumes would dissipate quickly and no one would perish from inhaling their foul stench.
The worst part? As soon as we exited the bathroom we had just destroyed, the receptionist came rushing down the hall (no doubt drawn by the smell and the ruckus Super Diaper was making at this point) to let me know that there was no changing table in that bathroom. She then graciously showed us to a room two doors down containing a labyrinth of changing tables, along with baby bathtubs, wipes, and…diapers!
And here we come to the moral of the story: always, always ask for help.
Whose turn is it next? I nominate Agnes Louis, Andrew Knott, Tim Cigelske, Caroline de Braganza, White Feather, Robin Klammer, Mo Solo, Mike Range, Kyrie Gray, Jesse Wilson, Bridget Webber and anyone else who wants to play along to write their best tales of epic embarrassment, parenting or otherwise. Only if you want to, of course. ; )