with Lynne and Leslie

The Story That I Said I Wasn’t Gonna Tell. It’s Gross.

by SweetMidlife

Hi! Lynne here!!

It’s been sad here in Sweet Midlife land. Thanks for your thoughts and prayers and sweet comments. We are living off of them.

So I thought I would tell you a funny true story. It’s about a gross thing that happened to us on the way to San Antonio this spring. SPOILER ALERT: It’s really gross. But it’s kinda funny. Now.

Happiness after the gross parts.

Happiness after the gross parts.

So, this past April, my husband, toddler son and I headed to Texas to see my husband’s family. We only get down there about every two years, so it’s something that we plan way in advance. Now, I won’t lie and say that this means that we are packed a week in advance, and that we roll out of the door exactly when we planned, and that we have on clean neat travelling clothes that we ironed. Because no. But we did put a lot of thought into what we were taking, and to what we were wearing, and even though I did change purses at the last minute, we did think a lot about potty issues. See, we started potty training hardcore back in February, and we had been doing really well with the big boy undies and all. On this trip, though, we decided to put him in Easy-Ups training pants (Pampers didn’t pay us to mention them, but holla, Pampers!! We love ya!) since we had a long day with the driving and parking and boarding and waiting and flying and such. AC, my husband, got the boy out of bed and out of his pajamas, and I put him in the Easy-Ups.

I swear I put him in the Easy-Ups.

So we got dressed, and packed our bags, and before we left the house, I thought, “I should really take him to the potty now.” But I didn’t listen to me, because he had on training pants, and we proceeded to the airport. We checked in, and even ran into friends of mine who I hadn’t seen for a very long time, and laughed and talked, and got to our gate and ate Auntie Anne’s pretzels (They aren’t paying me to mention them either, but Holla, Auntie Anne! I used to buy your pretzels in bulk). Before we boarded the plane, the toddler said that he needed to go to the potty, so my husband grabbed his hand and walked him to the restroom. When I looked up 90 seconds later, they were back, and my son was screaming “I don’t have to go!”, because apparently the airport bathrooms weren’t up to his high toddler standards. Yeah. Now, we thought about making him go, but the plane was boarding, and you know, he was wearing training pants. We’d be fine.

Yep.

We settled into seats towards the back of the plane, and we set up my son next to a window where he could see things, and we handed him headphones and my husband’s tablet all loaded up with kid shows, and we took off on our 3.5 hour flight.

And things were going great until about 2 hours in. Now, if you are wondering why we hadn’t taken my son to the bathroom by then, chalk it up to wishful thinking, and sleep deprivation, and the fact that he seemed comfortable. Yes, this was not smart, since toddler boys have been known to walk around in their own nastiness for hours if good TV is on. But again, self-delusion. My husband had gotten up to go to the bathroom, when Toddler says he has to pee. He was actually doing a little dance, but I figured that we had time for my husband to get back and take him to the lavatory. And that is when I looked down and saw something coming out of his pants leg.

It was brown.

I kinda started to panic, and make up things that could be that color and falling out of his pants that were not what I knew it was. Mud? Had we been to a mud pit? Runny brownies that he put in a pocket that had a hole in it? As I ran through all of the fake possibilities in my head, Husband came back. “He has to go NOW”, I said, and my husband grabbed his hand, as the little boy actually waddled to the bathroom because his pants were so full. And I called for the very nice and non-judgmental Southwest Airlines flight attendants (another unsolicited thanks), and they brought me disinfectant and gloves. And I started scrubbing brown stuff that wasn’t really an under-cooked brownie out of the plane carpeting. And my husband and son came back, and we put my son back in his seat, and I noticed that he was still waddling. “What happened?”, said I. “We didn’t pack a change of clothes in his backpack.” said he. This was so strange, because we sometimes over-pack that thing. “Why was he so wet?”, said I. “Did he pee through the Easy-Up?”

Wait for it.

“He wasn’t wearing one”, said the husband.

Things started swirling, and maybe it was the cleaner I had been inhaling, but say what now?

We still have no idea what happened to those training pants. I swear he had them on.

So my poor wet son had to sit in his plane seat for another hour in wet pants and not shoes and socks, because they were soaking. The lady across the aisle from us was shooting me dirty looks. I tried smiling as I looked up from the scrubbing but she wasn’t having it. And my poor child moaned “Mommy, I’m cold.”

Of course you are, sweet boy. I am sorry that you have parents who misplaced your disposable training pants and didn’t pack you replacement shorts.

When we finally landed, we waited until everyone got off of the plane, and tried to walk really fast to the baggage claim so we could get his clothes out of his suitcase and change him fast. We got our bags, lugged them off of the carrel, and started throwing clothes around right there in the luggage area. I found shorts, a shirt, socks and a new pair of shoes, and Soggy Boy and I ran to the airport bathroom. The large stall was open, and I started the peeling off, and the wiping.

So. Much. Wiping. And in between it, I would go out to the sinks, and my naked toddler would run out into the sink area, and ladies would squeal “SOOOOO CUTE!”, and I would smile and say “GET BACK IN THERE.”, and more wiping.

And I threw away every single thing he had been wearing. Including the shoes, which were just about too small anyway. Didn’t matter. They had the taint on them. And they needed to go.

And there was more to that day, with the rental car company not having our car ready, and the owner of the house we rented having to wait for us for awhile, and the 4 AM  storm that rattled the sweet bungalow’s shutters so much that we thought someone was trying to get in the house, and my husband got up so fast and knocked something over and it set the burglar alarm off. Yeah. But the rest of our stay was wonderful, and I knew the non-wonderful part would make a good story. I wasn’t going to tell it, but we needed a laugh right now. So there you go.


9 Responses to “The Story That I Said I Wasn’t Gonna Tell. It’s Gross.”

  1. angiehaube@gmail.com' Angie says:

    Yes…sometimes you just need to laugh. And sometimes, you also need to believe that even the poop gets better. It gets cleaned. It gets disinfected. And we move on to better days. May yours be close at hand, my friend!
    Angie recently posted…Who I AmMy Profile

  2. kriswilling@hotmail.com' Kris says:

    I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, Lynne! Thanks for sharing this light-heartedness with us (gross, but yes, funny – especially the way you tell it). I sometimes forget how good it is to have a 17-year old daughter . . . The challenges certainly do change over the years. Happily, the potty-training-months are almost over for you. Hang in there!! <3

  3. niknak411@yahoo.com' Best Friend Nikki says:

    Thanks for this story. It is SO gross and I wish you had told it to me when you were here because I absolutely would have laughed at you. In a loving way.

  4. nancybethshort@gmail.com' Nancy says:

    I absolutely love this. Thanks for the laughs. And thank you for just always being you and no one else. I’m glad Leslie has you right there by her side right now. xoxoxo

  5. mrs.aok05@gmail.com' Mrs. AOK says:

    Laughter is such great medicine. I’m glad you have that. 🙂

    Sorry, you had to go through that, but eh you can laugh at it now. I cannot imagine the mean ugly stares people gave you.
    Thanks for the laugh!
    XOXO
    Mrs. AOK recently posted…That’s What She Said: Odd Man OutMy Profile

  6. powelljennice@gmail.com' Jennice says:

    When I was five years old, my great aunt wanted to go visit her very sick brother in the hospital. Sh decided to serve lunch to my brother and I before leaving for the hospital. Her chosen lunch was split pea soup. We had never had it before and the color instantly turned me off but I ate enough to satisfy my hunger nad my great aunt’s approval. AS we are in the car all ready to go,my tummy starts making strange noises. I ignore them because I’m already strapped in my booster seat and thought I maybe had gas.10 minutes into the drive, I alert my aunt that I have to go number 2.She says ok and assures me we are almost to the hospital. My stomach is still protesting that split pea soup but loudly. We finally get to the hospital and I remind my aunt that my stomach is about to explode. She asks a security officer at a desk where the nearest restroom is and before he could say, the explosion already started in my underwear. My aunt was so pissed of she had already decided that I was going to stay that way until she was ready to leave. When we got to the floor we were visiting, my mom’s sister instantly smelled me and said no niece of hers would go around like that. She mercifully snatched me up,hailed a cab to the nearest kids clothing store(the ride was terrible with me making all those squelching noises),bought me new everything, went back to the hospital,cleaned me up,and threw away my nasty clothes.Weirdly, the fact that the clothes were thrown away pissed off my great aunt and she asked my aunt to retrieve them from the garbage and put them in a bag so she could take them home to be washed. Oddly enough, split pea soup is one of my favorite winter soups! #sitsblogging
    Jennice recently posted…Faithful Fridays #6My Profile

  7. […] stressful when out of their element, overstimulated and way past nap time, even when you have help (See Lynne’s sad/funny story about her son, a plane trip and some poopy pants). So when you’re the only person there to carry, coordinate, wrangle and talk a crazed […]

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