Some days, like today, it’s just too hot to cook or even eat at home, so I informed M that we would be eating in the air conditioned restaurant of his choice. I packed up Little L, who hadn’t pooped in three days, and we headed north to pick up C from daycare.
On our way to the restaurant I heard it. The sound that heralded the tone of our evening. The sound of three days worth of poop being finally evicted from the nether regions of our tiny newborn.
“Mammy! Da baby is awake!” C called from the back.
“I bet she is!” I replied, one hand fumbling in the bag, groping for the change of clothes I desperately hoped I’d packed. “That was quite a poop.”
I located a onesie moments before pulling into the parking lot of our usual dining spot, and heaved a sigh of relief. At least the kid wouldn’t have to sit in her car seat naked while we ate. I forgot to bring her diapers, but I had some for C so she’s sported the infant version of the granny-pantie, but it was all good.
I walked out of the bathroom and headed to our table. Little L and I had been gone so long that drinks had already arrived.
“It was a poopfest.” I told M. “I think I might need something stronger than a Diet Coke.”
He just laughed, which clearly shows that he’s never had to deal with the carnage that took place in that restroom. (I’m so very sorry for the people who came through after us.)
With Little L squared away I thought for sure that we could just relax and enjoy the rest of our meal. I’ve never been more wrong. Little L decided she was hungry, RIGHT NOW! C got impatient when her dinner took more than 5 minutes to come. She then proceeded to melt down completely when she discovered that her corn dog was too hot to eat right away. After watching her get progressively more and more agitated I finally had to resort to hauling her, kicking and screaming, out of the restaurant so she could calm down outside.
As we sat outside in the scorching heat, tears poured down C’s face and I pondered the fact that we’d been there for almost a half hour and I’d barely managed to swallow three bites of my salad. I’d been pooped on, kicked in the shins and screamed at. Saturday’s dinner really seemed like a distant memory, but I was happier than ever. Not because the kiddos were so upset, but because we were there all together, living the dream. I carried a smiling toddler back to the table (shh don’t tell my doctor, I’m still not supposed to carry her) and sat down to finally enjoy my meal. I never did get my drink, but at least the chicken tenders were good.