Poop and Tears :: Nothing To See Here, Folks

When I leave the house, the world is diligent to let me know that my baby is the only one in the world that cries.

I am not joking.

This is not my crying baby, but it is a crying baby...proof that other babies cry.

To be fair, I have had the experience before kids--and maybe even after mine are no longer babies--where I am in the line at the supermarket and the persistent screaming of a little baby makes me think, "For the love that is all good in this world, would someone make that baby stop crying?!?!"

But when it is me and my baby, I just dare you to speak those words to me. I. Just. Dare. You.

The other day, I was struggling through the store with London and the two Bigs. London wanted carried, so I carried her and asked Lucy to push the cart (Lucy is quite capable of this chore). However, she wasn't cooperating and Teddy was no help, either. So, I hold London on my hip and push the cart one-handed. If you've done this, you know it is a HUGE pain in the butt.

Half-way through the shopping trip (Father's Day shopping), London has had enough. She begins to fuss a little before that's not enough to get my attention, and then full out screams bloody murder. So to the check out lane I go.

The two women in front of me have a little baby a bit older than London. The older woman speaks to the baby, as if I have no ears, and says, "Look at that baby! It's not happy! You're ALWAYS a happy baby. Tell that baby! Tell that baby you're always happy and always smile!"

Come on.

Always?!

Another crying baby that is not mine...

But then there's a family behind me. They're a couple--young--and they have one baby. Lucy and Teddy have chosen this moment to start bickering and demanding those stupid over-priced toys the managers put at the checkouts. My blood is starting to boil. I hear the couple talking about me behind my back. Literally. They are talking about me BEHIND my back...

And I have EARS people!!!

This is not my baby, either...

Still, the older woman is talking about my "unhappy" baby and how her's is ALWAYS happy. She rolls her eyes and the cashier joins in on the conversation. I am glaring at this point. I'm almost hoping that the woman dares to make eye contact so I can make it crystal clear that I can hear her and that I am not pleased. But she's smarter than all of that. That's when I realize she knows I can hear. She intends for me to hear.

And now there is smoke coming out my ears.

What I suppose their babies look like when mine is crying...

That same day, we go out to eat. No fast food junk for us, thank you; we want to sit down somewhere and enjoy it. So, we go to our local Mexican place. I am convinced the normal waiter there has us "marked". He barely speaks to us every time we go and never brings us our bill or checks on us. But when you live in a small farm town, they know--and we know--we have few options.

When the dinner is finished and Roger gives up and just goes to pay without our check, I stand to follow. I am so proud of London. She has been good as gold and sung the entire time. I pat her back and whisper, "Thank you, Baby Girl..." and feel something wet on my hand. I pull it away and look...only to find greenish-yellow poop in my palm. A couple guests avert their eyes as I pass them. What they see, and I have not yet discovered, is that the poop is not only in the palm of my hand, but running down my shirt. It is everywhere.



Roger and I haphazardly balance London on my thigh outside the van. We strip her down naked, using baby wipes layer by layer to clean the poop up as we go. She is just smiling, talking, singing at the birds. When she is clean and in a fresh diaper, I'm half tempted to just rip my shirt off, but that won't do. So we drive home with me pretending to have my seat belt on, as not to get poop everywhere else.

 So why am I sharing my rant? I really don't know. I guess it's because I want to whine a little. Maybe it's because I cannot think of anything else to blog about? More so, it's probably just to whine...

Make me feel better, folks! Let me know I am not alone in this craziness! Tell me how your baby cries in public and other humans act like it's a phenomenon. Tell me you've been bathed in beautiful, golden, breastfed baby's poop! Please?!?!

~Gia


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