That one time, with the diarrhea, at Chick-fil-A

Tonight was Safari Petting Zoo night at our local Chick-fil-A. The boys and I went, because they had a monkey, camel, goats, kangaroo, hedgehog, capybara, and several other animals. The boys enjoyed it, and The Husband met us there on his way back into town for dinner. 

It was your regular dinner-with-kids. Eat some more chicken before you eat more fries, don't squeeze your juice, oops, you squeezed your juice? Etc. BeYoYo announced he was done and was going to the playground. The Boy said he wasn't going to the playground "because it smells disgusting". He means it smelled disgusting the last time he was there and he is a super sensitive smeller and didn't even want to risk it this time. BeYoYo played for a few minutes and then came back and crawled under the table to get back in his seat. Except he didn't get in his seat, he stayed under the table. I should have known this was a bad omen, but everyone was happy so I didn't question it. The Husband went to go get ice cream for the boys. About 3 minutes later I smelled something and panicked. I whisper-shouted at BeYoYo under the table "BeYoYo! Did you poop?" He grinned his sweetest, most manipulative grin and said no, which meant yes. I whisper-shouted at The Boy to let me out of the booth, and in one swift move, I grabbed BeYoYo carefully from under the table and scooted him out as I scooted myself out. I shifted him from holding him by his arms to strategically holding him so he was on my hip but my arm was under his legs instead of his butt. I had my hand on his leg, and I felt something squishy. "PLEASE let that be ketchup" I said to no one. 

It was not. I walked into the bathroom with a toddler on my hip and a handful of runny diarrhea. I had no wipes, no diaper bag, no spare clothes. I had only this child. Each stall was full, and there was a line. There was a lady standing at the hand dryer, talking with irritation to the hand dryer "Everything is automated these days" she said in disgust. "You think that's disgusting?" I thought, as I waited impatiently. Finally I could at least have a turn for a paper towel, so I put BeYoYo down, I wiped my hand off and quickly washed my hands. When I turned back to deal with him, there was a small puddle of poop on the floor too. I cleaned that up with a paper towel. Three days later it was our turn for a stall. HallelujahpraisetheLord, we got The Big Stall. 

I nudged BeYoYo into The Big Stall and saw diarrhea running down his legs under his shorts. He had filled up his underwear and unable to contain anymore, it then overflowed all down his legs until it reached his feet. He looked like he had just survived the quick sand scene in Princess Bride. 

Nothing makes you feel like a grown up like knowing you are solely responsible for cleaning someone else's poop. You'll remember I can't figure out a proper poop protocol (triple P) that minimizes the mess, so my only option was to pull down his shorts and underwear, getting them further into the brown mudslide running down each of his fat little legs. That meant that his butt and legs were now exposed, and his shirt hung down and clung to the poop on his butt. Gag. I pulled off his shirt too. "Why you taking off my shirt?" BeYoYo asked, loudly. "Because there's poop on it" I told him, quietly. 

Meanwhile the bathroom was a veritable turnstile of people, thanks to Safari Petting Zoo night. Kids loudly asked "what's that smell?" when they walked in. I have a naked child, a pile of poop-covered clothes, and a muddy river to deal with. I grabbed toilet paper and wiped and wiped and wiped and wiped. Poop got on the floor. I cleaned it. He sat on the potty, getting poop all over the toilet seat. I cleaned it up (also, this is why I squat always). He tracked the poop from the bottom of his feet around the stall.  I cleaned the feet and the floor too. I wiped and wiped and wiped some more. He danced and sang and balanced on one foot and squealed and told stories and spun in circles in the stall. I have never in my life felt like dancing and squealing after having diarrhea, but I was grateful for his good mood as I chased him around in circles wiping him. I silently cussed The Husband for not finding this literal sh!t storm before I did. I decided that this scenario was worse than even the time that The Boy wanted to go to the men's bathroom at Chick-fil-A, but wanted me to check to see if he'd wiped good, so tried to come to the door with his pants down to just hang his butt out the door into the dining room for my approval. I declined. 

No matter how much I wiped, more poop remained. By this time his legs and butt were red from all the wiping, and there was a crusty poop outline from his butt to his feet. I snuck out of the stall to get a wet paper towel and we continued the charade again and again. Each time I would walk out to get another wet paper towel, he asked to come with me. I told him no, I'd be right back. It was three feet away. Then he would get down on the floor, naked, with his butt up in the air like Mowgli and say "I watching you mama!" as he watched from under the stall. Part of me hated that it was busy Safari Petting Zoo night because there was so much traffic coming through, but part of me was grateful because most of the bathroom patrons were parents with kids, and they would understand. 

Also, I had to make a plan. I couldn't take him out of here naked and poop stained, but I didn't have any more clothes with me. My phone was at the table with the rest of my family. I waited until I saw grown up feet in the bathroom that also had kid feet with them, then I opened the door again. A mom is what I need. I approached a stranger and said "Could you do me a favor?" She said "of course," because solidarity, and I wanted to hug her. "My son had an accident and we don't have any clothes. Could you go tell my husband, and ask him to get us some clothes from his truck?" She nodded in understanding and said "of course". Then she just stared at me. I just stared back. A third family just looked at us, having walked in on the last part of this encounter. Finally she asked "what does he look like?" Oh, that would be important information. I described The Husband and she was off on her mission, because she was the best. What if I were here on my own and this happened? I can't even imagine the craziness of potentially getting a stinky, naked child to the car on my own. Maybe you just walk out of the bathroom waving a white flag in surrender, and hope someone helps? I remember that I have so much respect for all the single parents and I continued wiping. You know, testicles have a lot of wrinkles for poop to hide in. 

A few minutes later there was a knock on the stall door. I opened it, and my stranger friend was there. She said "he said he needs your keys because he doesn't have any clothes in his truck." Lard, now she's all involved and running errands for the both of us. She stood there waiting for my keys as I apologized and thanked her profusely. She said "Do you have clothes in your car? Because if not, I probably have something." This woman was an angel sent from Heaven. I told her I thought I did, and I handed her my car keys to deliver to my husband (This is a perfect example of why I don't teach stranger danger to my kids. In hind sight, maybe we should have been focusing on teaching how to not have diarrhea under a table at Chick-fil-a instead). 

I continued operation Triple P, and there was another knock on the door. Someone said "I think these are for you?" and slid some underwear and shorts under the stall door. Hooray! Yes, a second stranger was now involved and running errands for us out of the goodness of their heart. We should totally start a drug cartel and smuggle drugs in kid clothes and no one would ever catch on.

Now BeYoYo had no more poop running down his body, though he was far from clean. There's only so much you can do in a bathroom stall- he really needed to be run through a car wash. I wrapped up his poop-overflowing underwear in 100 layers of toilet paper and threw it right in the trash, silently apologizing to whomever would empty it, and also to everyone in third world countries where they would never throw away underwear. I'm sure that's a thing. I gathered up his poop clothes in a poop-inward pile, and we finally left the stall. He balked at hand washing, but I insisted. I washed my hands for 20 minutes, at least. Then I walked out with my head held high, a crusty, stinky, topless toddler by my side, and a handful of wadded up clothes. It was crowded, but The Husband met my eye as soon as I came out with a look that said "what-the-hell-just-happened-I-bet-I-owe-you-one-are-you-okay-you're-the-best" and I loved him for it. I handed him BeYoYo, and told him he'd need to be wiped down with wipes at the car. If a woman had gone to my car to fetch clean clothes, she would have also come back with wipes, a trash bag, hand sanitizer, and a margarita for me, but I'm not complaining. I told a Chick-fil-A employee that my kid had an accident, and I was starting to ask for a to-go bag for his clothes when she casually said "I'll clean it up! No problem. Where?" Um, you are a saint, Macy. I just need a bag. But for real, what if I had said "Oh, he's in the bathroom, so if you could just hose him off that'd be great"? I laughed out loud thinking about it, because she'd probably have said "my pleasure". 

Now, I have just emerged from dealing with a mudslide in the bathroom for 45 hours, have gotten a bag for the dirty clothes, and am following the topless toddler and his father out the door when The Boy said "can't we go back to the petting zoo?" He was so patient while we were gone and he was waiting with The Husband, but I didn't have it in me to do anymore time there. I told him we would not be going back. "But don't worry" I said, "The ride home will smell just like a petting zoo." 

On the way home BeYoYo asked to listen to a CD that he loves. I turned it on and tried to tune them out, but BeYoYo was yelling at his brother to be quiet! Be quiet! Be quiet! because he couldn't hear. I yelled at everyone. To BeYoYo: "Stop yelling! You can't hear either when you're yelling." And to The Boy: "Please stop making noise so your brother can hear!" BeYoYo cried. The Boy objected "I'm not even talking! I'm just breathing!" I told him then he'd have to stop breathing. He said "I can't! It smells so bad in here that I have to hold my nose so I don't smell the stink, so I have to breathe through my mouth." I couldn't blame him, he does have a super smeller. 

Suddenly I'm thinking age two is too old for a male child to be in the women's bathroom, and I'm going to insist that his father take him from now on.