Aaaah poop and Ellie. Ellie and poop. Poop, mom, and Ellie. Ellie, poop, mom, and airplane. Airplane, poop, mom’s lap, and Ellie.
I can change a diaper anywhere with two feet of space and a semi-flat surface. This includes my lap. In fact, up til now I figured I’d mastered the lap change. The altogether too easy diaper change that occurs when the changing table is inconveniently far away and the lap is much closer. Baby lays on lap, with changing pad underneath, diaper goes off, wipe, new diaper, button, bam. Lap change.
In an airplane, the lap change seems a brilliant alternative to stumbling over people and through crowded aisles just to wait until that darn “occupied” red sign switches to the green “vacant.” I went for it. And so did Ellie.
On my lap we giggled and cooed while I changed her diaper. With pad underneath and in between diaper switches, Ellie, well, she pooes a little. A fart and a spray of poo all at once. I show JD and we giggle (“she sharted!” we say). A second time a cute little spray of mustard squirts out of her butt like a volcanic steam hole and I quickly grab the other diaper realizing massive poop is imminent.
Remember, El poops about once every two or three days. Build-up occurs.
Within seconds, as if I’m watching a car accident in slow motion, a flow like magma pours out of her cute tooshy and ALL OVER the changing pad, her pj’s, and MY HAND. Remember those days as a kid when you would dip your fingers in hot wax? Same story, except instead of lifting your hand in surprise because you realize the wax is hot and burning your fingers, the hand lifts and the mouth gags because your hand is dripping in poop.
I kid you not. One ruined $4 dollar clearance rack of jammies later, I’ve resolved that I can do anything.