Explosive Poops on Planes (and Related Netflix Entertainment)

I feel like I could write a novel about diaper mishaps, but I don't.  Because it's disgusting and boring and who really wants to read that?

And yet, here I am about to write a blog post about an explosive poopy diaper.  But I must. Because my story must be told.

Our family went to the Cayman Islands last week - our fourth visit there.  It was awesome and beautiful and perhaps in the near future I will post pictures.  But the trip down there with three kids was a bit brutal.

In order to save a bit of money, we opted to take connecting flights from DC to the Caymans.  It sounded like a great idea a few months before whilst searching for the best fare, but I was cursing myself when we arrived late to the Miami airport and had to book it across the terminal to make it to our next flight.  We barely had time to do anything, but I told my husband we HAD to change my son Colin's diaper before we boarded the next plane.  Because really, where does one change a diaper on the plane?  In the minuscule, disgusting airplane bathroom?  I'm not quite sure logistically how that would work, and I didn't want to learn.

I took the older boys to grab a quick snack, while my husband changed Colin's diaper, in our reclined stroller.  We reunited in the boarding line, where my husband said to me:  You know in the Crocodile Hunter where the crocodiles would roll all over violently when threatened?  That's what Colin just did while I was changing his diaper.  

I had to laugh.  Better him than me.  At least it was done.

We boarded the plane, and I hunkered in with Colin on my lap, who was flying as a lap child.  Just as the plane was about to take off, I smelled something.  I reached at the back of his pants to look in his diaper, and there it was.  Explosive and yellow and mushy and about to go up his back.  And a bit of it got on my forefinger.

I calmly wiped my finger with a napkin and turned to my husband across the aisle and told him that Colin needed his diaper changed asap.  But of course, we had to wait for the plane to take off and for the fasten seat belt sign to be turned off which took, all in, around 20 minutes, all of which were spent with me delicately holding Colin in awkward positions so the poop would not squeeze out of his diaper and up his shirt.  I used this fact as leverage in convincing my husband to be the one to do the dirty deed.

The plane reached cruising altitude, my husband took Colin to the bathroom, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.  As I did so, I must have wiped my brow with my hand, because I noticed that my finger had left something wet on my head.

Yes, it's what you are thinking.  Poop.  On my forehead.

I scrambled to find another napkin, a bit confused as to how poop got back on my finger, and thus, on my head.  As I did so, I saw it.

To London and Back

I went to London this past weekend.

About fifteen years ago, when I lived in London, a weekend trip abroad wouldn't have been that out of the ordinary.  Travel back then was easy, frequent, and carefree.  It was what I loved most in the world, in fact.

Now, life is very different.  And so am I.

As a mom of three, travel is complicated, whether with or without kids.  Since this trip, precipitated by a conference my husband was attending, was going to be without kids, the childcare factor was the issue of the day.  And who knew that once we had that third child people wouldn't be jumping up and down to come and play mom for a few days?  After much stress, I ultimately secured a team of 3 to care for my 15 month old, 4 year old, and 6 year old, for four days.  The manifesto I left for all of them was 12 pages long.

Notwithstanding the complications, I was dead set on taking this trip.  I believe when my husband came home and told me about the conference, my response was: No way in hell are you going to London without me!  London is my city.  Having lived there for three years, I know its streets, its restaurants, its cheesy touristy bars, and a handful of incredibly awesome people that inhabit it. This may have been my husband's work trip, but it was my homecoming.  And I wouldn't miss it for anything.

I booked the ticket, did a little ankle click celebration, and then something weird happened.

I got scared.

I was actually scared to go through with this trip to London.  Which is preposterous on its face - I have been yearning for a trip away, and have been meaning to go to London forever.  But the kids....  what is it about leaving the kids that seems so unsettling?  I am not one of those parents that refuses to leave my children with babysitters, and my husband and I have taken weekend trips away before.  But the general notion of being far - very far - away was unnerving. The idea of them falling and needing a hug, or doing something incredibly cute, or waking at night crying - and I being so far away left me feeling anxious.

But that wasn't the whole picture.  The truth is, I wondered who I would be in London without them.