We were visiting family in Pennsylvania for my son’s first Christmas. After the holiday, we decided to rent a car and drive up to New York to spend New Years and eat some good food.
I had only brought enough formula for our son to cover a few days in PA, so we needed to pick some up once we arrived.
I searched all over Manhattan but I couldn’t track down the brand of formula that we use. His milk supply exhausted, I grabbed a random option from a corner store near our hotel.
We had plans to meet up with Dwayne’s cousin and boyfriend in Park Slope. We took the train to Brooklyn and made our way up the steps and into the cold. Each of us held one end of the stroller, walking in sync up the stairs, trying not to dump our son out in the process.
A few blocks down from Barclay’s Center arena, we walked into a trendy brunch spot. Everything about the place screamed “children are definitely not welcome here”.
We parked D3’s stroller unfortunately close to the table next to us and handed him a bottle.
After I ate my eggs Benedict I peeked my head into D3’s stroller. I leaned my face closer to his and was greeted by the foulest of odors.
This wasn’t good. I pulled him out of the stroller and handed him to my husband to get his diaper bag in order.
I shuffled some things around and pushed back my chair, diaper bag slung over my shoulder, when I saw it.
There was a small pile of poo sitting on my husband’s denim-covered knee. Its resemblance to the poop emoji was uncanny.
“There’s poop on your knee,” I said.
My husband doesn’t do well in situations like these. Sounds of his panicked pleas for help intertwined with our tablemates’ fits of laughter and the vibey soundtrack playing in the background.
I grabbed D3 by the armpits and made my way to the bathroom. I prayed no more excrement would escape down his pant leg and on to the floor of this fine establishment.
The women’s bathroom was occupied. I cast my bathroom etiquette aside and busted into the men’s bathroom.
The single stall bathroom was the size of a closet. There were three paper towels in the dispenser. There was no changing table.
In the fluorescent light of the bathroom, I saw that his situation was worse than I thought. His clothing is a liquidation sale at a bankrupt store – everything must go.
I did what I could with the measly paper towels available, which was not much. My husband knocked on the door just in time. We stripped him down and cleaned him up as best as possible with the baby wipes and toilet paper at our disposal.
The staff at the restaurant knocked on the door to hurry us up.
We tossed his clothes in the trash. His diaper explosion happened on a day that I forgot to pack an extra outfit. It was 50 degrees outside and all he had left was a hat, a diaper and shoes.
I took off the ugly wool cardigan I bought at Uniqlo and wrapped it around him.
We ran out of there as quickly as possible, trying to avoid the murderous glances from the waitstaff who would have to clean up the disaster zone we’d left.
We pushed D3 over to the Target a few blocks away (they have a Target in New York?). We grabbed him a new outfit and a pair of Wranglers for Dwayne to replace the poo-stained ones he had on.
And the right formula.