Adventures in Diaper Changing

Just when we started to get it all figured out…

Yesterday, E, A, and I (lots of vowels) went to open play at Gymboree, which has become a weekly Monday afternoon activity.  It had gone very well over the past few weeks.  A enjoys playing on all of the apparatuses and E loves to chill in the Bjorn and watch.

Well, yesterday A decided that he wanted to take his late afternoon deuce a little early.  I saw him pause as he crossed the bridge to the slides.  His mouth set in a slight grimace, his eyes and cheeks red with strain.  About three seconds later he was on his merry way again, a trail of stink following after him.

I could’ve ignored it, loaded him up in the car, and sped home to the comfort of our own padded changing table and wipes warmer, but no.  I had to open Pandora’s box.  I brought both kids into the bathroom, E strapped to my chest.  I tried to get A to lie down on the changing table, but for some reason he decided it terrified him and he lunged at me, grabbing onto my neck and shoulder for dear life.  I wrestled him onto the table and managed to get the clean diaper situated under him (I could not locate my changing pad, and there were no disposable liners available…whatever).  I gave him a little project – a sealed baggie of pretzels and hoped for the best.  This distracted him for about 3.2 seconds.

Meanwhile, little E had caught the wail fever and was matching her cousin scream for scream.  I tried to move quickly; but in my flustered haze, this proved to be a mistake.  I pulled off the very dirty diaper, trying to use the five wipes I had in my diaper bag judiciously.  I got everything cleaned up, strapped on the new diaper and sat A up.  Success!  Then I saw “it.”  “It” was everywhere.  All over the changing table.  All over A’s onesie.  All up and down his leg.

This is when I knew that our time at the Gymboree was over.  Ten minutes of fun.  Ten minutes of panic.  Another ten minutes of trying to undo the damage we did in that bathroom.  I got some paper towels laced with antibacterial hand soap and washed down the changing table.  I did the same (somewhat) for A’s leg.  I pulled on his (thankfully navy blue) pants, tucked the soiled snaps of his onesie into his waistband, and packed up my sanity and our dignity.  I whisked the two screaming children out of there, strapped them into their giant stroller and wheeled them out of the Gymboree (knocking over several displays on the way).

Next time we’re just going home and he can stew in his own filth for the 15 minutes it takes to get there.

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