So, in the attempt to switch from one bloggerific experience (i.e. myspace) to another (i.e. blogger) I will bring you snippets of the other blog. Gem-like morsels that cannot be limited to one specific area of blogville. And so, for your reading pleasure, I give you...Garrett and the Great Poopy Plane. An oldie but, most definitely, a goodie.
Garrett and the Great Poopy Plane Caper
It all began en route to the Portland International Airport from my sister-in-law, Jolene's, house in West Linn, OR. We had barely turned the corner and were somewhere paralleling the Tualatin River when, from the back seat, we heard the grunting. I looked at Troy. "When we get to the airport, that diaper is yours," I told him with a smile. (He's not coming home until Wednesday so I figured it was only fair for him to have to change that one.) When we got to the airport, Troy got the kid out of his carseat and started changing him. It didn't take but a second for us to simultaneously realize that Garrett had exploded. Troy noticed the wet and stinky clothes he was wearing and I noticed the slimey substance on the carseat. "This is a two person job," Troy informed me. A two person job indeed, Garrett needed reinforcements. The spare outfit emerged from the diaper bag and we were good to go.
Fast forward through check-in and security and airport Wendy's being out of the bread they use for the frescatta club. Fast forward even through the first half of my flight from Portland to Oakland where we stopped for about 45 minutes. Fast forward through the woman who boarded the plane and told me, "She is so beautiful. I saw her through the window (I was in the front of the plane) and what a gorgeous little girl." Garrett and I had a good chuckle when she was out of earshot. He was wearing blue, mind you.
So there we are. Sitting in the plane at the Oakland airport. Everyone had boarded. We are preparing to get the heck out of Raiderville when I smell it. My first thought is, "How is there anything left inside of your little body with as much dung as there was all over your clothes and your carseat a mere two and a half hours ago?" My second thought, as I pick him up to see if it's him, is, "Why is my hand wet?" I look down. Outfit number two is covered in poo. There is nothing I can do because the seatbelt sign is on and will be for quite some time. (On the first half of the trip it never went off.) A few minutes later I realize that all the passengers within several seats of me are kind of looking around and sniffing. The red begins to creep up my neck and into my cheeks. I contemplate announcing that it is, indeed, my small child. Soon, the flight attendants are also attempting to find the source of the hideous smell. Garrett is trying to sit in my lap. I am making him stand. The poop...is literally...everywhere. The flight attendants come by for drink orders.
"What would you like?" She asks me.
"Nothing. Thanks. But is there a changing station in the bathroom?" (As it comes out I wonder why I am referring to something that has no bathtub and is about 100 square feet short of being considered a room as such.) She goes to check. She comes back.
"I'm sorry. Some of them have them but this one doesn't. You can change him on the toilet lid though."
I nod. I could. But obviously you, dear flight attendant, are not privy to the amount of poop we are talking about here. Finally the seatbelt sign goes off. I literally fling myself and my nearly seven-month-old at the lavatory. I have no idea what I am going to do. I know, however, that whatever happens, it will make a good story. What I didn't know was how much worse it was going to get before it got better.
I put Garrett on the toilet lid, which is long enough for about half of his body. The other half hung off the front. I took off his pants, the onesie was covered in the waste. As I attempted to get the onesie off, his hands somehow got poop all over them and he was getting mad. (Being that his body was hanging half off the toilet lid and it had to be uncomfortable. Not to mention, cold.) He slammed his fecal covered hands against the side of the lav. Poop on the walls. I tried to throw the diaper down the very small trash can. Poop on the trash can. I set the onesie in the sink. Poop in the sink. Poop on me. Poop everywhere. Garrett rolls sideways and gets momentarily wedged between the toilet and the wall. He screams. I laugh. Because there is seriously nothing else to do.
Eventually I wipe down the entire plane lavatory because no flight attendant signed on for that job. I think I was in there for about ten minutes. Toward the end of the fiasco, with my child half dressed, the plane hits some decent turbulance. Garrett bounces happily atop the toilet, and actually giggles like it's some fascinating ride. The captain turns the seatbelt sign back on. I grab my baby, who had no other pants (as he was already on his spare outfit) and had to wear the ones that had a hint of doody on them, and lug everything back to our seat. There I put his jacket back on him. He smiles, nestles into my arms, and munches mandarin oranges. Just before we land in the most beautiful city, the flight attendant asks if we are going on to Phoenix.
"No. We're getting off in San Diego." (Because we're San Diegans my little pooper and I.)
"Well, he is the best baby I have ever seen. He is so calm and happy. Here are some wings for him." We say thank you. And I smile to myself. Perhaps we are calm in appearance. But a mile above California, stuck in the smallest of bathrooms, with poop everywhere, Garrett was bouncing and wedging and screaming seemingly all at once. And I was laughing maniacally. Because sometimes, that's all you can do when it comes to babies.