so how was your day?

I got myself invited out to lunch with some of the moms from my new Mothers’ Group. We walked to the restaurant. About 20 minutes, around the lake. It was awkward, me pushing the snap-and-go with its less than smooth ride, and the other two women with their tiny babies neatly swaddled against their bodies in carriers. It’s hard enough to walk three abreast on the sidewalk without one of us trying to manage the equivalent of an overloaded toy plastic shopping cart.

Even though it was clear that these two had been friends before the group, we managed to find things to talk about on the walk. I can’t remember what, now.

We got to the restaurant and there was another trio of moms from the group, already lunching. We sat at the adjoining table.

Our food came and soon after all three of us had babies on our boobs. Feeding and trying to eat at the same time. The other two women were discretely covering themselves. One had one of those special “au lait” privacy thingies designed just for the purpose of hiding boob and baby. Another draped a blanket over her and hers.

I just whipped out my boob and set my boy on it. Maybe it’s all those years of spa-ing at hot springs retreats (clothing optional variety).

They finished eating, we finished eating. People were chatting, I was holding the boy up just post burp and trying to hear over the din of the clattery restaurant and then it happened.

“Your leg!” one of the moms shouted.

I looked down. Streams of yellow poo coming out of my boy, flowing out his pant-leg and onto mine, like the mustard dispenser at the ballpark.

I panic. I think some of the women gasped (in horror?). Poo on his socks, all up his back, the onesie, the overalls. I put him on the table, try to wipe my leg. He’s screaming. I try to remove his clothes, mustard poo spreading everywhere. Somehow I had already gotten his change of clothes and a diaper out of the bag (I don’t remember this happening but when I look down on the chair next to me, there they are) but no wipes. Another mom gets them out for me, while a second puts a cloth diaper down so that I can put his still soiled yet naked body on something, and a third hands me a plastic bag. I’m desperately scouring the boy with wipe after wipe. He’s yellowish all over. Two of the moms leave, but three stay with me while I wrestle and wrangle. Can’t get the diaper on right. Try again.

Three elderly women who had been sitting at the table next to ours during lunch pause on their way out to stare in horror. One says something about how this never would have happened in her day, she would have taken him to the bathroom.

One of the moms says to her “Thank you for sharing” in a voice that meant it not.

I knew I was being judged but it was happening in a different movie, at a different speed.

As I started to wind down, I looked around and noticed that the restaurant seemed a lot emptier. That the mess of plates and salt shakers that had originally surrounded my boy’s head like a crown were now gone. One of the moms put some extra cash on the table for a tip. The three exited, waited for me outside while I struggled to put on Jonah’s fresh socks.

The whole time I wanted to cry. But I didn’t.

We walked back around the lake to the parking lot where we’d left our cars. As we parted ways, one of the moms said to me, “I’ll have to teach you my diaper blow-out song. My husband and I sing it whenever we have one.”

YES! A song. That will definitely be useful for next time.