April 18, 2007 | about me, parenthood
(Part 1 of this gripping story is in the post below.)
The poop is of epic proportions. It soaks through the Fecklet’s nappy, through his Elvis babygro, though his jumper, through my jeans. It is yellow and speckled with curds. I stand up, holding him outwards so he won’t smear me, and the poop drips down his leg and onto my arm.
“Do you have a changing table in your loo?” I ask a waitress (not the one who brought me the bug in my salad).
“We don’t have a loo,” she tells me, “but there’s a public toilet across the courtyard.”
I carry the baby across the courtyard. The public toilet is out of order. I think I’ll find a clean corner somewhere to put him down on the changing mat that attaches to my nappy bag and change him…but the courtyard is lined with restaurants, all of them with plate-glass windows, all of them with diners sitting looking outside.
Have I mentioned that my son’s favourite new pastime while being changed is grabbing his ankles and holding up his butt and privates so they get more air and are extra-visible?
Finally I find a secluded bench outside a hairdresser’s with frosted windows. This is perfect for changing Fecklet and scrubbing myself down. Only one problem: it’s underneath a tree which is coming into leaf, shedding hulls with every slight gust of wind. Two sharp-looking hulls land within an inch of my baby’s eyes before I’ve got the mess cleared up.
By now it’s been about an hour and a half since we left the car dealership. So we make our way back, optimistic that surely everything will be easy from here on in.
Except when we return, we’re told that it will be another half an hour. “That’s fine,” I say calmly, “except my baby needs to eat before then. Do you have a quiet place where I can feed him for fifteen minutes?”
“Sorry, nothing like that,” says the car salesman. He goes away. Five minutes later another salesman comes by, and I ask him. He also says no.
“You’re really testing our customer service here,” he jokes, and I say, with even more admirable calm, “Yes, yes I am.”
When the third salesman comes by, I say to him, “Gosh, my baby really needs to eat. Do you think it will put off your customers when I breastfeed him right here near your main entrance, or do you think it might attract more?”
This salesman thinks hard. He says, “Actually, I have an idea.”
I follow him around the building. There stands a midnight-blue Chevy van with tinted windows. He unlocks it.
“Leather seats, fully reclining, and a blind on every window,” he tells me. “Used to belong to Ann Summers. Make yourself at home.”
I climb in with the Fecklet. It does, indeed, have leather seats, in cream. They look like mini La-Z-Boys. There are cup holders. There is plush carpet. There is a faux walnut dash, and two TV screens, and a microwave. The interior is screened with accordion blinds, so nobody can see me as I feed my son and try to imagine what Ann Summers used to do with this van.
You wouldn’t believe the look on the face of the young man sweeping the car lot when I emerge from the van holding a baby and adjusting my clothes.
Kate Walker says:
He pooped in the ELVIS babygro? He was wearign one of my Elvis babygros? (babygroes?)
Yea! I am part of this story if only by proxy!
Do you kknow, you told that story wonderfully – you might like to think about becoming a writer.
I love the image of the young man seeing you emerge from the car – worth all the rest you had to endure to see his face!
Now I dare you to get that in a book .
Hugs on the day – but you told the story brilliantly
And Fecklet was wearing my Elvis babygro!
Julie says:
It’s a very nice Elvis babygro, Kate. I only wish it had better poop-repelling qualities. Thank goodness I have another for emergencies.
Harriet says:
J, I am wetting myself, almost literally, over this one. Brilliant. And be grateful that the poop didn’t happen over the cream leather seats…
Loads of love and apologies for obviously not sending you a birthday card despite the fact that you are on my calendar. Yes I have a birthday calendar, but I still forgot my mother-in-law’s birthday so beat that xxxxxxxxxxx
mary beth says:
lol.
Glad they found the van for you!
Michelle Styles says:
LOL I am pleased it turned out well.
As an aside — you are prepared for when the fecklet is about two and taking all his clothes off in public…
Biddy says:
Lol, I definitely think the van needs to be included in a story
If the Fecklet pulls this kind of stunt next week there will be trouble!
Jessica Raymond says:
Ah, so it all ended with some comfort and privacy! Bless the third salesman.
Jess x
Lyvvie says:
Oh the joys of breastfed babies and their neon yellow poop. I know how you feel.
And why didn’t you buy An Summers’ old van?!? I mean talk about inspiration!!
Shaz says:
OMG! The first line of your blog gave me the icky shivers
You know I had to hustle over here after Gail’s comment in SW, Julie. But why she would think this is something I want to know about is beyond me *grin* Makes great reading though.
Lori says:
LOL – Julie thank you for sharing your adventure. On to the next….
daisy says:
Brilliant Julie, you should be writing scripts! And then you could get every single actor you’ve ever fancied to be in your movie!!!
Car Mechanic #1 – Cillian Murphy
Car Mechanic #2 – Ewan Mcgregor
Car Mechanic #3 who sees and is overcome with lust for Julie (and that’s not to say that the others don’t but maybe they’ve got issues) – David Tennant
x Daisy
Anna Louise Lucia says:
AAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAAA!!!!! OMG! Ann Summers’ van saves the day!!
You couldn’t make this stuff up.
Okay. Maybe YOU could make this stuff up… gggggg
Your boy is a fecklet of distinction. And that salesman deserves a medal, if only for lateral thinking.
Michelle Willingham says:
Oh, you had me laughing. What is WITH the anti-gravity poops? Too funny. And I envy the mothers who could breastfeed and never show an inch of skin. My children were always slapping at me and trying to get rid of the blanket/coverup.
Marilyn says:
Ah… been there, done that. #1 son would only go poop about once every 7 days (which is well within the norm for a breastfed-only baby) but when he did, good heavens alive it was up his back, down his legs and everywhere else. I tried to stay home on the 7th day but it isn’t always possible. I had it happen in a restaurant once and I had to just take him to the restroom area, lay blankets on the floor and wipe him down as best I could with wet wipes.
This gives new meaning to the phrase “Sh*t happens” doesn’t it?
Marilyn says:
Oh… and who is Ann Summers?
Julie says:
Ann Summers is a brand of lingerie and sex toy shops in the UK, Marilyn. I don’t know if she is a real person or if the van belonged to the company.
The third salesman was a lateral thinker, but as it was a hot day and the van, though luxurious, had no ventilation when it wasn’t running, I would have been more thankful had he offered me a corner of his office for fifteen minutes. Or if he’d told the truth in the first place about how long I was likely to have to wait (2 1/2 hours rather than one).
That wouldn’t have been as good a story though, I guess.
Julie says:
Daisy, in my dreams, Cillian Murphy, Ewan McGregor and David Tennant would have begged me to get my breasts out right there.
Marilyn, 7 days’ worth of poop at once?!? I know that is normal for some babies but I shudder in fear.
Shaz, anytime you want a poop story, I got millions of ‘em.
Harriet, I am ashamed to beat your forgetting your MIL’s birthday by forgetting yours. When is it?
Michelle, I know, it can always get worse.