Poop-plosion

Being a mom means I've become fondly acquainted with poop. Not to imply I like it by any means, but I've definitely become accustomed to wiping it, wearing it and smelling it. Did I tell you about Tory's recent poop-plosion in the card aisle at Target? Yeah, that happened.

Over the last 10 months, my ability to cope with embarrassing parenting situations in public places has come along way. I remember being so nervous to take Tory to the store, for fear she'd scream bloody murder and I'd have no way to soothe her. (Her resistance to pacifiers has been one of the most scarring experiences of my parenting career). There were many days, in fact, I bolted from the store without making a single purchase because I was so embarrassed by her outcry. Oh, how things have changed.

A few weeks ago, Tory and I went shopping at Target to pick up a few groceries, formula, shirts and any other random goodies I discovered. We've recently upgraded to the convertible car seat and this latest milestone has brought about some new challenges; ie, Tory will not sit in a shopping cart for more than 15 seconds. It's quite a job to entertain her as she's strapped in the cart, while I hunt for items on my shopping list and navigate the store around shelves and customers. The belt is tight enough, but the little stinker can maneuver her legs out of the harness faster than a straight jacket. (Since this day, I've realized the Baby Bjorn is a must-have shopping accessory. Strapping her to my body is the only way to contain her).

Anyway, after an hour of shopping, my cart was full and Tory was positioned on my hip. Nearing the check-out counter, I remembered I needed a birthday card for my brother-in-law and re-directed to the card aisle to make one last selection. As I picked through the cards, I felt something running down my bare leg and into my flip flop. What the? I gazed down at my white t-shirt and noticed liquid brown poop covering Tory's bottom half and one side of me. Ack! A bout of teething-induced diarrhea had soaked through her diaper and little gray shorts, my shirt, dripped down my leg, into my flip flop and onto the aisle floor. She was happy as a clam, by the way.

I did what every mother faced with a poop-plosion would do. I hauled my heaping cart to the restrooms, grabbed my diaper bag and wrangled cleaned a wiggly baby from head to toe. And this is where life has really changed for me: I wasn't about to abandon my entire cart over a little poo! The new-mama-me would've been mortified, but now it didn't even phase me. I contemplated changing my own poop-soaked shirt into one of those waiting for purchase in my shopping cart, but I didn't. Instead, I strolled over to the register area, paid for my things and drove home with squishy liquid poo in my shoe. As I tore out of the parking lot, I may have run over one of those curb divider thingies because I was just a tad big flustered. But hey, I've come along way, baby.