Prescription for Disaster

Tuesday, 22 April 2014

Deal with it Mum! (I kind of miss diapers)

Deal with it Mum! (I kind of miss diapers)

(a post not for the pearl-clutching variety)

We were walking down the street with friends of ours, having just met them for dinner with our three and a half year old twins. The twins remained quite civilized throughout the meal, regaling the other restaurant patrons with their chopstick skills and conversational Chinese. As parents we couldn't be prouder, and walked down the street back toward the car with our heads held high in pompous pride. 

I should have known it wasn't meant to last.

Out of nowhere one of the twins stopped and stood straight as a board, panic on her face as she shouted "Oh noooo! It's poop! It's coming out!"

Wait, what? Honey hold it, we'll go find a washroom!

"I can't, Mummy DEAL WITH IT!"

What?! Why me? Her dad was right there too - though we were all too busy busting a gut with laughter to help her. Parents (and friends) of the year, right here. I rushed her into the nearest ASDA (with her doing the cowboy shuffle) to finish off and clean up - a task with twins (the other one had to suddenly go too) that had me longing for the days the twins were still in diapers - life was so much easier back then. I emerged from the handicapped bathroom with two dripping wet three year olds, myself panting and coated in sweat to share this lament with Paul, who reminded me of 'the Great Indian Incident of 2012'.

Ah yes. That. Diapers don't always do what they are supposed to.

Who doesn't love a good tikka masala every now and then? The girls were about 2 years old and we had taken them out for lunch at a local Indian place we were eager to try. The food was delicious and the girls loved it, dipping their bread in masala and sweet korma, helping themselves to vegetable rice and generally eating and jibber-jabbering away while we enjoyed the meal. Both kids seemed absolutely fine, they seemed to love it, actually.

Until we got into the car.

The kids were strapped into their car seats in the back, happily looking out the window as we pulled into the street and started our relatively short drive home. Out of absolutely nowhere Lochlynn started screaming at the top of her lungs - an 'I am in mortal pain' type of scream. I turned in shock to see her purple in the face and completely rigid in her car seat, straining stiff as a board against her restraints. We didn't know what to do, we had no idea what was wrong or what was going on. Paul changed course for the nearest hospital as I whipped off my seat belt and crammed myself through the small space between our own seats and into the back seat of the CRV, kicking Paul in the face as I did. I am not a graceful woman in the best of conditions. Neither of us cared, we were desperately worried about Lochie, who was still purple, rigid and screaming. I tried to soothe her, to get her attention, anything to comfort my child... 

And then she smiled.

All was suddenly quiet and calm as we sped down the street toward the hospital, the putrid smell hitting us in the face like a can of mace. Lochlynn had filled that diaper. Her clothes were puffed out to the side to accommodate the size of the full diaper. I've never seen a kid so suddenly satisfied. I was frozen in place, mostly in the back of the car with the kids but still with one entire leg resting on my own seat up front. My mouth was hung open in shock, not quite comprehending what had just happened and giving my own child the side-eye as I told Paul that she was okay, no need to go to the hospital. We could head back home. With the windows down, please.

Paul obliged and made a U-turn, heading back toward home as I attempted to complete the crawl into the back-seat - where I didn't fit between the car seats anyway but figured I would at least give it a go as I was more than half way there anyway.

Bam! Lochie suddenly straightened in agony and screamed at the top of her lungs, again turning purple. She was gasping for breath, this couldn't be normal - there was something seriously wrong. Paul made another sudden U-turn and we sped back toward the hospital - Lochie's twin sister Kaitie losing her own cool at the roller-coaster of panic within our family vehicle. Lochie was screaming and I was trying my best to hold her without removing her from her car seat, wishing nothing more than to hold her and take away her agonizing pain -

And then she smiled, again.

I swear to God that kid filled that same diaper again so much that she got taller in her car seat. I couldn't take this. I was hanging half into the trunk of the CRV with my bum bent over the seat frantically emptying groceries all over the car so I could use the plastic bags to shove down Lochie's sides to contain the poo-splosion and save the car seat - and the car. There was so much in there that it had overflowed out the top of her pants and cascaded outward like a rolling sea of putrid foam. Tears stung my eyes - I was jerked violently to the side, Paul having made a fourth U-turn to again change course and head home. The Indian poo-foam was now in the tips of my hair.

I stayed there for the remaining journey home, perched with a single bum cheek on the tiny middle seat between their gigantic car-seats, hair blowing wildly in the wind of the open windows and staring at my happy toddler, sure that there was no way this was over.

We made it home, spilling out onto the drive and releasing both kids. Lochie's situation was so dire that I took her pants off in the car and left the overfull and shredded remains of her diaper in a horrific mess in her car seat, plastic bags and all. Paul would be getting out the pressure-washer, that was certain. Relieved that there didn't seem to be any more coming we brought the kids inside and I went off to the bathroom to clean myself up as Paul tackled Lochs with a pack of wet-wipes on the couch. I was in the midst of scrubbing under my nails when I heard more screaming and a "nnnnooooooOOOOOOOO!" from the living room. I yelled to Paul to find out what was happening as I started down the hall when he shouted back "Run a bath!"

"What? What happened? Did she go again? Is it on the couch?"

"It's too late for the couch! Don't come in here! Just run a bath!"

"What do you mean it's too late for the couch?!"

"Run. A. BATH!"

"Do you want bubbles?"


Never, ever in our lives have we dealt with so much poop at once. The next time we ate Indian food as a family we ordered in, the kids were naked, the couch was covered in a sheet and the potty was within arm's reach.

'Cause hey, who doesn't love a good tikka masala?