Well, it finally happened. I have undergone a Mommy rite of passage. I have been inducted into the Exploding-Poop-Bomb Club. Or, should I say, Exploding-Poop-Bomb-on-an-Airplane Club. Or, better, Exploding-Poop-Bomb-on-an-Airplane-during-Final-Descent Club. Ah, yes, I remember being childless, hearing mommies tell all those poop stories, and wanting it to be me! No joking.
Yes, it finally happened on our return flight from Austin to Las Vegas. The smell wafted just as the final “Fasten Seatbelt” light came on. (Note to Kemit, ardent anti-cloth diaper activist, I happened to be using a disposable for the trip. Hmmm? :) ) Fortunately, Southwest (my now-favorite airline, by the way) has very understanding flight attendants. As I kneeled on the floor in the rear exit cubbyhole of a Boeing 737, holding two ankles in one hand and a handful of messy wipes in the other, I had to wonder: how does a baby get poo-poo all over his…CHEST?!
Someone gave me this sage advice when I was pregnant: “Sometimes you just gotta sacrifice the outfit and cut it off with scissors.” Frugal zealot that I am, I had been incredulous, but since my newfound status as a poopie veteran, I am a little more understanding (though I don’t think I could ever go that far…).
Please know, there is no sarcasm here. As I changed the Exploding-Poop-Bomb, I laughed my head off, thinking how awesome it is that I now have my very own precious poop-maker. Mommyhood rocks! Wouldn’t change that for the world.
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