On Saturday we took Dylan to a
pumpkin patch farm fully equip with a pumpkin shooting cannon, scarecrows, a
corn maze and ATV races. Who knew the suburbs of So. Cal. had so much ranch
life to offer? Dizbaby loved being outdoors amongst the harvest and didn’t so
much as whimper when he was faced with crowds of people running around in costume. My husband decided to push the
envelope and approached Dylan while wearing a scary mask, only to be met with a
chuckle. Dizbaby ain’t scared! By the time we left the pumpkin patch it seemed
as if we’d be able to take Dylan anywhere without experiencing temper tantrums,
crying or unwanted attention. And then came reality check Sunday.
It all began at a seemingly
perfect lunch in a pretty decent restaurant in Los Angeles. I was spoon feeding
Dylan when he suddenly began holding his breath and turning red. I know that face,
it means mommy will need to change his diaper very soon. My initial reaction
was, “Really Dylan? At the table?” I gave him a few minutes to finish up and then
promptly took him to the ladies room to take care of business. The bathroom was
packed with women and included a long line that I had to push through. The
second I laid Dylan down on the changing table he began
screaming as though he was being tortured, killed and scarified to the Mayan
Gods. WTF!
I tried to move as fast as I
could but there was no hope. Dylan had shit everywhere. His clothes, his back, and
his legs were covered in baby stink. It was my worst nightmare: out in public,
screaming baby, poop all over, on my own. I wiped and wiped and tried to soothe
the kid as much as I could whilst cleaning his body but Dylan and I were in the
process of being equally traumatized. Five minutes, fifteen wipes and three
hand washes later we survived. I looked around and Dylan and I were alone. Hey
now! At least I know how to clear out a busy bathroom!
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