Dear Zach,
Tonight you, your Dad and I went out for dinner at one of our favorite ‘kid-friendly’ restaurants, Piccadilly Pub. You had fallen asleep just before we got there so we figured we were in for at least a little quiet time. You, however, had other plans. Lets just say that you had been saving up your diaper changes for about a day now. You woke up just as we walked in but you were being so good just entertaining yourself with the toys on your car seat. That is of course, until you started getting a bit fussy. Well, it’s nothing Mom or Dad can’t fix by holding you, right? Riiiiight.
Well. I picked you up out of your car seat to snuggle and hopefully get you back to sleep. That’s when I felt it. Why is my arm wet, Zach? I turned you around to see the mess I was in for when I caught your dad’s eye. The horror written on his face meant only one thing. It was bad. Very. Very. Bad.
I looked down and saw the smear of pasty yellow/green right across my freshly washed tank top. There’s poop on me. There’s poop on you. There’s poop in the car seat. I don’t even know where to begin. I threw you in the stinky carseat and into the bathroom we went. The outfit you were in wound up in the bathroom trash can because to wash it was just too much to think about. I rinsed off the car seat as best I could and put you in the clean, yet almost too small for you already, new outfit. I then attempted to wash the poop off of me while you screamed and squirmed in your carseat.
Back to the table we went. Me with a soaking wet, still slightly yellow shirt, and you sitting on a pile of paper towels to protect your new outfit from the wet seat. And while you didn’t sleep through dinner even the waitress commented on how good you were being. But she clearly didn’t know about the poop–or that you tried to steal every bite of fish I took!
Love,
Mom
