Scotty did a little last minute shopping at the District.
Since it was Christmas Eve, the gardens were exceptionally crowded. We had to park almost two blocks away, and as Brian was loading the Bear into the stroller, he made a face. And then declared, "Either he just made a poop or just had a horrible toot."
I frowned. The place looked jam-packed and the last thing I wanted to do was wrestle our little Bear from his coat, shoes, pants and dirty diaper to change him on what was likely a very gross changing table in an over-crowded restroom. I have never been a fan of the public changing table, preferring to do quick stops and change him at home, but this was like a monumentally icky, not to mention logistically challenging, diaper change.
I gave the kid a quick pat on the butt. "Doesn't feel full," I announced, and Brian nodded. Scotty has been having these like, man-sized dumps as of late, so it's pretty obvious to know/feel when it's time to change him. Not to mention, the smell practically could make a grown man keep over in his tracks.
We both agreed that it must be just gas, and continued on to the gardens. Scotty gave no indication that he might be a little uncomfortable, so we stayed about 25 minutes before heading home (and not before getting our free chocolate sample. Mmm, free chocolate.)
As Brian loaded him back into the car, he grimaced again. "I think there's poop now," he said. No worries, we decided; we'll be home in less than 10 minutes and can change him then. Not ideal, but not the end of the world, either. And again, Scotty was acting like a normal, happy kid. His little eyes were starting to look a little sleepy, but that was about it.
So after we got home, I gave him another little pat on the butt. Nothing solid. I actually contemplated letting him play for a little while, but since the clock was clicking close to 7:30, we decided it was time for sleepy-time.
Brian, unbeknownst to him, made the best decision of the night by stopping in our bedroom first while I took Scotty into the nursery to get him ready for bath time. My first indication that something was wrong happened when I unbuttoned his little denim jeans and they didn't move. It felt like they were stuck to his body with a thick paste. I yanked and pulled and finally they came off -- but not until I realized there was poo all the way down his leg.
"BRIAN!" I screamed. "GET IN HERE!"
Now, we need to note that Scotty hasn't had very memorable poops in his lifetime. He's never had a blow-out poop that actually came out of the diaper. Probably his most notable poop was when he was three months old and poop came shooting out of his butt at 40 mph while I was changing him. But it was like, 3am and I wasn't sure if it had really happened until I noticed poop on lamp shade. And then of course, there was PoopGate, where he famously didn't poop for 11 days. But that's about it. No poop in the tub. No poop without a diaper on. It's literally been drama-free on the poop front for months.
Until this night.
I took off his socks and realized there was poop caked on them. I grabbed about 30 wipes and began the arduous task of wiping poop out of every crevice on his body, including the front of the diaper (how did it get in the front?) while Scotty kicked and giggled and acted like this was the most fun he'd had all day. He reached down several times and actually touched some of it, so then I began scrubbing poop off of his hands while trying to clean his little behind. I couldn't pick up any corner of the diaper without touching the poop myself, and so I found my hands coated in poop. There was poop on my jeans, my sweater, on the changing table, and all over the baby.
It felt like this was the Medusa of poops - no matter how hard I worked, the poop seemed to grow bigger and stronger and cover more surface area despite my best intentions.
It was a fecal nightmare.
I continued screaming throughout this unholy process. I'm not sure what Brian thought was going on, but he came running like the house was on fire as I yelled to him to get the bath started.
Just when I thought I had finally cleaned up every blessed piece of brown matter, I set him on the ground only to realize it had run up his back.
Another 30 wipes later and he looked mostly clean. I handed him over to Brian since the bath water was finally ready and I promptly headed downstairs to burn our clothing in the yard.
When I realized...
...we are out of wipes.
Completely. Not a single wipe in the house...at 8:30. On Christmas Eve.
I saved this news for Brian until we had a sweet-smelling, pink & clean baby freshly dressed in his Christmas jammies. (Fat Boy, of course.) Brian took the news well and ever the dutiful husband, put his coat on and headed out in search of wipes. My hopes of sitting quietly by the Christmas tree and admiring the lights were dashed as the husband headed out the door.
So instead I played a game on the iPad and drank half a bottle of wine by myself.
(FYI: Babies-R-Us is closed on Christmas Eve, as is Wal-Mart. Walgreens was open and Brian bought three packages. He wasn't sure what kind to buy, so he bought the ones with a panda on the front.)