We didn't come home that way.
Just a little while after lunch, we rode the carousel and then started playing pretend in these little playhouses they have. So cute! I stood on the porch talking to a couple of my friends. One of them ducked inside to say something to her son. She came back out and announced that someone in there had a stinky diaper, and that it might be my son.
My son? Smelly? Surely, you jest.
But I picked him up, and—wouldn't you know it?—his little dupa was the culprit. I bummed a diaper off a friend (for the second time that day, since I'd forgotten the diaper bag in the car), and headed for the restroom.
I was completely unprepared for what I found.
The kid had poop up his back to his shoulders and down his pants to his socks. Shoulders to socks poop, people! Nasty! I didn't even know where to begin! Fortunately, I'd dressed him in layers. His onesie was shot, but his shirt wasn't poopy. Then in the process of getting him undressed to clean him up, he got poop on his socks.
The extent of the nasty required me to strip him naked, put him in the sink, and wash him off with paper towels as best I could. In the museum. I apologized to the other moms who came in wanting to change their kiddos, since my son's explosion had made the changing station a hazardous waste site. They shook their heads and smiled and sympathized. I don't even want to know what they were really thinking. I'm grateful that my friend April happened to bring her daughter into the bathroom while I was in there. She helped me assess and control the situation.
Disaster. Epic disaster.
We entered the museum fully dressed. We left the museum with my son in only his shirt, diaper, shoes, and hat, and I left without my hoodie (which had gotten poop on it in the cleaning process). I wheeled him through the museum as fast as I could, his little jacket draped over his naked legs to try to provide some semblance of modesty for my poor toddler. Wonder of wonders, my car was parked right outside the entrance. Miracle of miracles, there was a towel in the trunk to put in the car seat to provide it with some insurance against another disaster on the ride home.
And in case you're having a hard time visualizing the scenario, I took this picture when we got home:
That's what he wore outside. In 30° weather. No pants. No socks. My poor baby.
To make things worse, I never give my son his baths. My husband always does it. So when we got home, I had to give an emergency bath for the nastiest mess of all time, and I barely knew what to do. Based on the strange looks from my toddler, I must not do things in the same order Daddy does. At least I got it all off! I hope!
Now, I don't have any words of Christian wisdom to go with this. I wish I did. Something about being prepared for whatever "poop" life throws at you? Thanking God for small blessings, like that close parking space and that mystery towel? I'm just spit-balling here. My personal lesson is that your kid is never too old for a diaper bag with a spare change of clothes.
Oh, and God bless the cleaning people at the Children's Museum. On our way out, I notified several people of the toxic bomb that exploded in the fourth floor bathroom to ensure they got there quickly. We're at DEFCON 1, people. Move it, move it! They've got a special place in my heart from now on. I will thank every single cleaning person I ever see there. No. Joke.
And I hope this made you laugh. It made me laugh, if only to prevent me from crying.
That is all.
Oh, but just so you have an idea of what my son looks like fully clothed: