Weekend in the City, part 2
Dear Members of the Singles Ward that meets in the Manhattan Temple,
Let me apologize for my appearance in your ward on Sunday. No, I was not ward-hopping. No, I was not attending your ward because I was hoping to get a date. I wasn't even being a tourist. I know, I kinda looked like one, what with my Saucony running shoes and nice thick running socks that I had paired with my black skirt. I usually wear nice shoes. I promise, I do.
Tecnhically, I shouldn't have been at your ward in the first place. In fact, I should have been in New Jersey at my friend, Elizabeth's, house. But my cell phone had died and I didn't get the message.
And my husband would have been there with me, but he was trying to find a parking spot. I know, it was the first beautiful weekend in the City and there were no parking spots to be had in all of Manhattan. He found that out. The hard way.
I don't usually wear a giant pink fluffy blanket as a shawl. I realize that added to the freakishness of my outfit. But, you see, I had poop smeared all over my shirt. I know, you don't like to talk much about poop. No one does. But it happens. Especially when you give your sweet baby prunes.
I only gave her prunes because it was the last thing in the diaper bag for her to eat. And she was hungry last night. And I didn't want her to miss out on dinner in the restaurant we were at. So I gave her prunes.
Oh, and, I know my baby did look pretty neglected. You may have seen her and thought, "I will never bring my baby to church barefooted with her bum hanging out of her diaper with no sort of ruffly underpants to hide the Sesame Street cartoons dancing all over her overly-decorated Pampers." I thought the same thing when I was single. But like I said, poop happens. And when it does, lots of other stuff happens, too.
You see, about 15 minutes before the meeting started, she was wearing really pretty lace tights and pretty sparkly pink shoes. They even matched the pink bow in her hair. But then the prunes happened. And when I say they happened, they really happened.
And what's a girl to do, when even though you intended to change out of the running shoes (that you are only wearing because your feet are so swollen with blisters from walking around in heels the day before that you can't shove them into anything else) before church started, but there was the biggest prune-poop explosion in the car seat that you've ever seen, to the point that your husband--who is now exhausted from driving around looking for a parking spot for 45 minutes (not knowing that he'd drive for yet another hour without success) and whose super-sonic olfactory sense is in overdrive from the prune-poop smell wafting from the back seat-- just pulls as close as he can to the church/temple and says, "You gotta take that baby inside and change her. I'll make it when I can..."
What can you do except grab whatever's available in the backseat, like a pink fluffy blanket to wrap your baby in, forgetting her shoes as well as yours? What can you do when you get to the bathroom and realize that she's torpedoed through everything except, thankfully, her little linen dress, so you have to strip her down and just be grateful that you're not about to walk in the chapel with your baby only wearing the diaper?
What can you do when you finish changing her and realize that the explosion has somehow made it's way all over your shirt?
What can you do when you realize that the only church meeting is now the singles ward and so, even though you'll be the only person carrying a baby, wearing running shoes, covered in prune colored poop in the meeting, it's your only option since your husband still hasn't shown up?
The only thing you can do is walk in, sit down in quiet humiliation, and try to think of how funny this is.
It's not too hard to do.
Let me apologize for my appearance in your ward on Sunday. No, I was not ward-hopping. No, I was not attending your ward because I was hoping to get a date. I wasn't even being a tourist. I know, I kinda looked like one, what with my Saucony running shoes and nice thick running socks that I had paired with my black skirt. I usually wear nice shoes. I promise, I do.
Tecnhically, I shouldn't have been at your ward in the first place. In fact, I should have been in New Jersey at my friend, Elizabeth's, house. But my cell phone had died and I didn't get the message.
And my husband would have been there with me, but he was trying to find a parking spot. I know, it was the first beautiful weekend in the City and there were no parking spots to be had in all of Manhattan. He found that out. The hard way.
I don't usually wear a giant pink fluffy blanket as a shawl. I realize that added to the freakishness of my outfit. But, you see, I had poop smeared all over my shirt. I know, you don't like to talk much about poop. No one does. But it happens. Especially when you give your sweet baby prunes.
I only gave her prunes because it was the last thing in the diaper bag for her to eat. And she was hungry last night. And I didn't want her to miss out on dinner in the restaurant we were at. So I gave her prunes.
Oh, and, I know my baby did look pretty neglected. You may have seen her and thought, "I will never bring my baby to church barefooted with her bum hanging out of her diaper with no sort of ruffly underpants to hide the Sesame Street cartoons dancing all over her overly-decorated Pampers." I thought the same thing when I was single. But like I said, poop happens. And when it does, lots of other stuff happens, too.
You see, about 15 minutes before the meeting started, she was wearing really pretty lace tights and pretty sparkly pink shoes. They even matched the pink bow in her hair. But then the prunes happened. And when I say they happened, they really happened.
And what's a girl to do, when even though you intended to change out of the running shoes (that you are only wearing because your feet are so swollen with blisters from walking around in heels the day before that you can't shove them into anything else) before church started, but there was the biggest prune-poop explosion in the car seat that you've ever seen, to the point that your husband--who is now exhausted from driving around looking for a parking spot for 45 minutes (not knowing that he'd drive for yet another hour without success) and whose super-sonic olfactory sense is in overdrive from the prune-poop smell wafting from the back seat-- just pulls as close as he can to the church/temple and says, "You gotta take that baby inside and change her. I'll make it when I can..."
What can you do except grab whatever's available in the backseat, like a pink fluffy blanket to wrap your baby in, forgetting her shoes as well as yours? What can you do when you get to the bathroom and realize that she's torpedoed through everything except, thankfully, her little linen dress, so you have to strip her down and just be grateful that you're not about to walk in the chapel with your baby only wearing the diaper?
What can you do when you finish changing her and realize that the explosion has somehow made it's way all over your shirt?
What can you do when you realize that the only church meeting is now the singles ward and so, even though you'll be the only person carrying a baby, wearing running shoes, covered in prune colored poop in the meeting, it's your only option since your husband still hasn't shown up?
The only thing you can do is walk in, sit down in quiet humiliation, and try to think of how funny this is.
It's not too hard to do.
Comments
Oh, the visuals. Oh, the smells. Oh, the emotions.
I'll be chuckling for days.
This is what happens when you have kids. It's happened to all of us. More than once. Many times in fact. So had you been at a regular ward, no one would have thought twice about it. They would have said to themselves, "There must have been a blow out."
Funny that it was a singles ward!
Oh, there's so much to love about this post. PLEASE tell me you took a picture!
I'm never gonna get over how funny this is, or how awesome you must have looked.
i think this is the best poop story i've ever heard. seriously, don't know what could top it.