The Husband and I have a difference of opinion.
He says that the first was worse. I say it was the second. We both have our reasons.
The Rock Star had a doozy of a diaper on an airplane once. The Little Buddy has had his fair share of yicky poop but never one that rivaled his brother's mile high incident.
Matthew's father hasn't been able to make it out to Utah so we decided to stop and see him on Monday on our way home. We'd managed to get all our camping gear packed up that morning and were headed north. Slowly, from the backseat, an unpleasant smell wafted silently into my nostrils. We pulled off at a gas station. The Husband started filling our tank. I undid The Little Buddy's car seat straps and plopped him onto my hip. The Rock Star followed us into the station. As I waited for the man behind the counter to get me the key I felt it.
My hip was warm and squishy. I glanced down. Fecal matter was smeared across my shirt as though finger painted by a toddler. Sighing deeply, I closed my eyes for a few moments. Then I reached my hand out for the key and made way to the bathroom. It wasn't exceptionally clean and there was no changing table. I had to settle for laying my precious second born on the rather icky floor but, as he was already covered in poo, I figured it probably wouldn't be any worse. I pulled his basketball style shorts off. They looked like they were reversible. If, you know, someone wanted blue for one day and hot, sticky, poop for the next. The smell was overwhelming and The Rock Star stood a few feet away groaning and gasping and carrying on like he was going to fall over dead from the putrid stench. His antics had his little brother in hysterics and poop flung in all directions as Matthew laughed and twisted and flailed as he watched Garrett dry heaving. As I worked through wipe upon wipe upon wipe I heard Troy's voice outside. "Is everything okay in there?"
My own voice was edgy, shaky, even. "No." I moaned. "There is poop everywhere. You're going to have to get Matthew and me new clothes." Silence. I, myself, was particularly upset about this twist of fate because I'd thought long and hard about which outfits we'd wear so that we would look nice enough for our visit while still being comfortable enough to drive to the Nevada stateline that night. Troy was particularly upset because of where the clothes were.
We had camp gear and toys and food and blankets and pack 'n plays (well, just one of those), and books everywhere. Everything fit just exactly into the back of our car like a perfectly completed puzzle. On the bottom were our suitcases.
By the time I exited the gas station with my son, who was now wearing only a diaper and shoes, Troy had unpacked most of the car. Our tent bag was set beside the gas pump. Sleeping bags were lying on the ground, a bag of Dudley's bread was balanced on the bumper. It was as if we'd decided to set up camp in the Arco parking lot.
Troy repacked our car while I put The Little Buddy in his new outfit and changed my own. We sealed the poop clothes into a plastic bag where they would remain, festering in the sunny car, for a day and a half until I could get home to wash them. A half hour after we stopped we were back on the road.
Troy says this road trip blow out was worse than the next day's.