Baby Poops
All right, since Rachael has dragged this blog down to the level of baby poop stories, I'll share my best one. My oldest son, Eamon, was about nine months old. My wife Elen, her sister, Eamon and I were driving through Killarney National Forest in Ireland. We were in a mountain pass a couple of thousand feet above sea level, on a lonely highway, many miles from the nearest town.
That was when Eamon decided to let loose one of the most foul, messy BMs of his life. It went up his back, down his legs, and, at least as I recall it, over his hair. We pulled over along the side of the road. Gingerly, we placed the lad on the hood of our rental car. While two of us guarded him from rolling off the hood and tried to keep him calm, the third adult cleaned him up. (I don't recall who got which assignment -- I think I've blocked about 15 gruesome minutes there from my recall.) His clothes were beyond salvage, and we stuffed them into a plastic grocery bag along with his diaper and the wipes we used to clean him.
But now we had a problem. The bag was far from airtight, and it stunk to high heaven. And we had quite a ways yet to go before we arrived at a town. Fortunately, we had pulled over across the road from the only building for many miles in either direction -- a small cafe, one that was closed. I noticed that they had a pile of garbage sitting outside their kitchen door, obviously waiting to be picked up. I reasoned that one more tiny bag would make very little difference to the cafe or the trash collector, while leaving Eamon's load with the rest of the rubbish would spare us an hour of misery. So I took the bag, trotted across the road, and placed it atop the rest of the garbage. As I crossed back to our car, I saw that Elen and her sister were laughing.
I turned around. It seems that almost as soon as I had dropped the bag, a dog had slunk out of the forest and grabbed it in his mouth. I saw him triumphantly bounding off into the woods with his prize. My, he must have been sorely disappointed when he opened his steal.
That was when Eamon decided to let loose one of the most foul, messy BMs of his life. It went up his back, down his legs, and, at least as I recall it, over his hair. We pulled over along the side of the road. Gingerly, we placed the lad on the hood of our rental car. While two of us guarded him from rolling off the hood and tried to keep him calm, the third adult cleaned him up. (I don't recall who got which assignment -- I think I've blocked about 15 gruesome minutes there from my recall.) His clothes were beyond salvage, and we stuffed them into a plastic grocery bag along with his diaper and the wipes we used to clean him.
But now we had a problem. The bag was far from airtight, and it stunk to high heaven. And we had quite a ways yet to go before we arrived at a town. Fortunately, we had pulled over across the road from the only building for many miles in either direction -- a small cafe, one that was closed. I noticed that they had a pile of garbage sitting outside their kitchen door, obviously waiting to be picked up. I reasoned that one more tiny bag would make very little difference to the cafe or the trash collector, while leaving Eamon's load with the rest of the rubbish would spare us an hour of misery. So I took the bag, trotted across the road, and placed it atop the rest of the garbage. As I crossed back to our car, I saw that Elen and her sister were laughing.
I turned around. It seems that almost as soon as I had dropped the bag, a dog had slunk out of the forest and grabbed it in his mouth. I saw him triumphantly bounding off into the woods with his prize. My, he must have been sorely disappointed when he opened his steal.
Comments
Post a Comment