Yesterday we went to the “big Zoo” in Phoenix (pictures to come later). It was a great trip, poop included.
The Zoo had a very cool stingray exhibit (no, it was not dedicated to Steve Irwin, although that would have been a nice touch). You could put your hands in and touch the rays. I did not really believe this would work but it did. The rays were very soft and watching them swim was beautiful.
Ben was pretty excited about it, so afterward we relented and bought him a very inexpensive stingray plush toy.
The way home, on the other hand…well, let’s just say Maya was very unhappy. We placated her with cookies and then placated ourselves with the same. I had a couple of boxes of Girl Scout cookies, and Marti and I would giggle every time Ben would ask for “a girl scout.” Then we stopped and tried to comfort Maya, who was crying, and Ben put his stingray over the seat and said, “Stingie (he named it), sting baby for crying.” Maybe it was the stress and maybe it was the sugar, but we laughed hysterically for a while.
We were nearly home when Maya suddenly stopped crying. There was about 15 minutes of blissful silence until suddenly the most terrible smell pervaded the entire car. I mean, that might have been the worst smell I have ever encountered, including Japanese public restrooms. It was a rotten, sewer smell. Clearly, after a week of holding it, Maya had pooped, so we looked for a place to pull over.
I ran around to open the rear door and — my god. It was like a poop bomb had dropped into the back of our car. The diaper merely deflected it and sent the poop slightly sideways rather than straight out. Little feet were kicking poop. Poop smeared the back seat. Poop filled the baby seat. And the clothes…Maya’s third outfit of the day, covered in poop. I delicately pulled the seat out and tried not to touch anything with my hands, including my daughter.
While I frantically used an entire box of wipes cleaning up, Ben scrambled across the seat and picked up a cookie she had dropped. I looked up to see him moving it towards his mouth. Time slowed. “Nooooo…..” I said in horror. Ben stopped. “Look mom, I found a cookie.” “It has poop on it.” “It doesn’t.” “It does.” “I can’t see any poop.” “THE POOP…IS…THERE.”
And to the side, Marti is shaking with laughter. “To us, disaster, but to Ben — a windfall,” he says.
The next 30 minutes were the ickiest of my life. I tried not to touch anything and of course my forehead itched, my nose itched, I wanted to brush back my hair…
We came home and I immediately walked into the shower and we all were hosed down with a considerable amount of hot water. Ben did NOT eat the cookie, I might add, but we practically had to wrestle it away. As for Maya, she is very relaxed in the way a person is who finally poops after 7 days of holding it in. The car may never be the same.
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