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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