In fact, prior to the evening past, I could count on one hand the number of times that we’ve had some mishap with a poorly aligned diaper, or perhaps a diaper that has “runneth over”.  However, last night may go down in history as the most disastrous fecal-related incident that I have ever known.

Those with delicate constitutions may want to skip the next couple of paragraphs.

I was alone that night as Chris was out for orchestra practice, so it was just me and baby girl.  The night was going pretty well, the girl was in good spirits for the most part. There was no warning of things to come; nothing really could have prepared me for what was going to happen during bath time. I mean, you just don’t read about events like this in all those baby books you get as a first-time parent.

Bath time started out innocently enough: Filling her big plastic tub with warm water, her toys floating aimlessly in the rising flood. It was time to chase down the ankle biter and strip her down for the tub. And strip her down I did! Diaperless, she screeched and panted and scooted down the hallway, back towards the nursery. I chased her, eliciting yet more breathless giggles.

Scooping her up, I walk back down the hallway with a squirmy, kicky, naked baby. I laid her down on the bathmat for only a moment as I turned to pull a towel out of the closet.

That was when I smelled it.

At first, I thought it was just her passing gas. My daughter, farting up a storm in the schooled tradition of a drunk frat boy. But this. This was stronger.

I turned back to pick her back up and…

SHIT. WAS. EVERYWHERE.

I dropped the towel I was holding to snatch her hand, which was literally milliseconds from placing a gob of poo into her pie hole. Poop was all over the bathmat, on the side of the bathtub, on the floor, all over the baby. It was pretty much my single worst nightmare of parenting, and it was there in full, odious technicolor.

Imagine this: You, trying to keep a shit-covered baby from squirming all over the place, “spreading the wealth” as it were, AT THE SAME TIME you are desperately trying to reach for ANYTHING to clean up all of that poop or at the very least CONTAIN IT. On top of all that, you also have to also keep her from PUTTING HER OWN WASTE INTO HER MOUTH.

New parents, let my example be a warning to you: If you are going to bathe your baby, PLEASE remember to keep the diaper fully locked in the upright position. Unless of course you are okay with pressure washing the inside of your bathroom and your baby.

There just isn’t enough bleach in the world to make that bathmat feel clean again.

The Scene: a few blocks away from David Burke Primehouse, Chicago

“Wait! Wait. I think we are going the wrong direction.”

“You said to turn left, we turned left.”

“I know, but I think we should have turned right back there, near Ontario.”

I exhale fully, emptying my lungs of their contents completely. I waited a beat before inhaling.

“Okay, what time is it? Reservation is for 10, right?”

We had landed not more than 45 minutes prior, at Midway. One crazy taxi ride later we were at our swanky boutique hotel, the Affinia. Now when I talk about crazy driving, let’s put in in perspective: People in the midwest think I can be a “crazy” driver; it’s really not so, I’m aggressive only when the situation calls for it. This cabbie was truly someone special, though. I’m pretty sure the cab only had two speeds: Stopped and WAYTHEHELLTOOFAST. He was perfectly content to leave the vehicle in the latter speed for most of our journey, including the several instances of blasting his way through intersections of packed crosswalks. I think it was at this point that I sent my sister a text along these lines:

“If something happnz to us, would you b Reese’s new mommy? We dont have a will so this msg will hav 2 do!!1!”

Anyway, we dump our stuff and ask the Affinia front desk chick for directions to the David Burke Primehouse. I’m pretty sure she didn’t really know where it was because her walking directions were completely duffed – OR I was still sort of jacked up from the adrenaline rush of a reckless taxi shuttle and couldn’t focus enough to pay attention to what she was saying. Or both. Anyway, we sort of rushed out of the hotel and in our hurry we made a wrong turn.

Next Scene: Standing in the lobby of David Burke Primehouse, being completely ignored by every server who walks past us

“Are we invisible?”

“Maybe we’re wearing too casual clothes. Do you think I have to wear a dinner jacket?”

“No, I see customers wearing jeans. We’re good.”

“How late are we?”

“Quarter past, I think.”

“Damn. I hope they didn’t give our reservation away.”

Just then a secret door opens just behind the host station. Dimly lit room reveals a few individuals, laughing and still pretty much ignoring us. One gent turns, sees us, then awkwardly excuses himself from the secret-hostess-makeout room to properly address us.

“Yes?”

“Uhm.  Yeah, we had a reservation at 10. We took a wrong turn.”

“Oh. Let me see. (pauses) Philipsen?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we close at 10, just so you know but our kitchen is still open and our house is your house.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks?”

“Just a moment and we’ll seat you.”

He walks away, then returns briefly to lead us to a very elegant, very large booth. It seemed that everything was wrapped in some form of animal skin. While I would like to say that it smelled of leather and rich mahogany, the odor was more like seared meats and the vague perfume of various types of booze.

Soon I would realize that the booze scent was primarily coming from a table of three men. Probably the most drunken, obnoxious, and profane table in all of Chicago. And they were Right. Next. To. Us.

“FUCK YOU.”

“FUCK YOU. NO. YOU SHUT UP.”

We haven’t even ordered drinks at this point.

“LISTEN, YOU DON’T SEEM TO GET SOMETHING, AAANND I’M THE GUY WHO’S GOING TO TELL YOU…”

“SHITHEAD, I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE THE CEO OF BURGER, BURGER AND DUMBSHIT…”

“SHUT UP. YER GUNNA SHUT UP NOW. JUST SHUT UP. SHUT UP.”

“FUCK YOU.”

At this point, we’re still trying to take in our surroundings, to really enjoy the richness and beauty of this restaurant. But understand, it’s really hard to appreciate all this elegance when obscenities are being shouted and booze-thick spittle droplets rain down around us from the hot mess three feet away. We put in our order for soups and entrees, and then prayed for the miracle that the shouting asshats would just go away.

However, it wasn’t looking good. In fact, the whole night just got worse. Each round of drinks delivered to The Table of Utter Douchebaggery just upped the volume on the crass and vulgar discussions.

At one point, I looked over at my husband and noticed his grip on his steak knife was so tight his tanned knuckles were white. He wore the expression of a man who was about three minutes from doing something that I’m pretty sure would require a steep bail.

“SHUT UP AND LISTEN. Here’s what ya gotta do to make partner. I’m partner. You’re an associate. HEY, FUCK YOU.”

“I know your wife, she was an intern. I’m partner, and what you gotta…. no, I love your wife. She’s the only one I trust.”

“I’m not making fun of your wife! SHUT UP. I… I LOVE YOUR WIFE. She’s an associate. But, but, but HERE’S what YA GOTTA DO TO MAKE PARTNER.”

I motion to our server, Jeremy. I pat the plush leather-bound bench seat next to me. Obligingly, he sits down and I lean close to him, whispering.

“Jeremy, who are these guys?”

“Oh, yeah. I know. I know.”

“I mean, seriously, they are completely pie-eyed. They’re a mess. And they are really disrupting our meal and making it a very unpleasant experience. Any chance you could convince them to move to the bar?”

“Oh, they’re semi-regulars. Our bar in the restaurant actually just closed too.”

“Jeremy. We just flew in from Columbus Ohio so that we could spend our FIVE YEAR ANNIVERSARY DINNER in David Burke Primehouse. I realize that doesn’t make us shit, but seriously. If we wanted to listen to this, we could have eaten at Chili’s. Or Applebee’s. But we came here.”

“Oh, I know. I know. I know. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I can move them, but we’ll do our best to take care of you.”

And so I released him, allowing him to do his best to mitigate what was becoming for us an incredibly disappointing night. While our respective meals were gorgeous (bone-in filet for me, a beautiful porterhouse for Chris), the atmosphere was probably the worst I’ve ever experienced in ANY setting.

At one point, we just tried to make light of the situation. Mostly by mocking the sots at the next table.

“Maybe I could pelt them with my truffle oil french fries? Do you think they’d feel it through all that booze?”

“Oh, EFF YOU EFF YOU EFF YOU. I’M KIND OF A BIG DEAL! I’m the C E O! I’m the C. E. O. of DOUCHEBAG, DOUCHEBAG, and DRUNKENIDIOT. I’M A BIG DEAL!”

“No, YOU shut up! NO. NONONONONONO. No YOU SHUT UP. You don’t understand! Shut UP.”

Basically, we acted like a couple of grade school children and mimicked their excessive and vulgar tirades to make ourselves feel better. We continued to make fun of them long after we payed our bill, laughing our way back to the hotel.

In fairness, the restaurant was just lovely, the food was incredible, and Jeremy did try to make our evening special with a luxurious dessert (compliments of the house, of course). God help David Burke if we were internationally-known food critics, because our overall experience that night was truly atmosphere FAIL.

Guess what!

She found my paycheck.  And she chewed it.  Relishing every pulpy moment, I’d wager.

Fortunately, she seemed to only mostly destroy the protective paper envelope.  The check itself was in acceptable condition upon deposit this morning.  Moist, yes, but still acceptable.

It really wasn’t long ago when my only real concerns were how green I could make the grass on my front lawn or coordinating my toenail polish with my vast array of corporate-casual outfits. How different life is right now for me, I have neglected my patchy front lawn for the second spring in a row and I have forgotten that I even had toenails, much less what color they are sporting.

Today. Today was one of those days that made me realize how simple those cares are. We could start with the girl. She pooped a LOT, starting early in the morning and ending just before her bath tonight. I’ve never SEEN a baby poo so much in one day! What the hell am I feeding her? And why does it seem like three times as much is coming out of her than what actually goes in?!

And the DOG. Cleaning up after my pup has had it rough points (oh, those morning walks when I was pregnant BLECH), but today was just…charming. Imagine if you will – a 65 lb dog running wind sprints around my postage stamp backyard with a clump of POOPY GRASS hanging out of his butt. Dear readers, if this offends you, do so skip down to the picture of my daughter eating her feet. If you are a dog owner, or have owned a dog in the past you know what kind of random things they eat and consequently pass out the back end. I should be so lucky that it was merely grass and not, say, a pair of socks or a garden hose or something.

This dog, he knows there’s something desperately wrong with his hind end, and while he’s attempting to “run” it off, it’s just not going anywhere. He bends back, tries to nip at his tail, but to no avail. I think I even saw him attempting to perform the quintessential “ass drag” on the lawn. If you know anything at all about greyhounds, you’ll know that they are physically built in such a way that it near impossible to do the “ass drag” for any reason, and for this I know my carpets and area rugs are safe.

Three minutes of me watching him deal with this noisome anal disaster with his comically pathetic butt dragging and I realize that I am forced to help him. By pulling the malodorous clump of poopy grass out of his butt.

Really, that’s not the high point of my day. I got a pedicure too.

But not that kind of pedicure

I mean the weather is great, right? Friggin sunshine! I KISS YOU FACE.

However, aside from the weather, my super darling wonderful infant threw a ninja-style super soaking spit up all over herself and ME this morning before I dropped her off at daycare. I was bummed because she was looking fly in her shorts and cute summery style shirt, and I didn’t want to change her out of it. I made the executive decision that she was just going to have to remain in the shirt, and consequently smell a little less than “springtime fresh”. And since what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, I too am still wearing my baby-vomit smelly shirt. Hey, nobody said I wasn’t fair.

Anyway, I’m starting to make a habit of stopping in at my local Starbucks for the cheapest brew that I can get (Pike Place Roast, tall) so that I can jack-start my morning of working from home. I felt pretty yuk this morning when I walked in, because some gorgeously tall, perfectly dressed and well appointed chickie was in line ahead of me. I felt classically frump and dumpy, and covered in puke. That broad was killing my feel-good buzz from the sunshine!

I finally get up to the counter, and I place my admittedly silly-looking diaper tote bag (which looks a little like this, only it was 4.99 at Michaels and definitely not hand-crochet) on the counter, and ordered. The barista looked at my bag, and said “Sweet Bag.” I wasn’t sure if she was serious, so I picked it up, let her take a look at it, and said (quite deadpan) “Yarrrrr.”

Both her and another barista burst out laughing, and said, “That’s great! Pirates RULE.” and they gave me my cup for FREE.

I locked myself out of my house in the middle of this freezing snowy rainy afternoon.

I grabbed my car key, my wallet and my phone.

Check. Check. Check.

As I pulled the door shut behind me, I slid my hand into my coat pocket for the house keys.

Not there.

Other pocket?

Not. There. EITHER.

You know that camera trick where suddenly you focus in on one thing and everything else pulls away, indicating a dramatic concept? That’s exactly what happened to my vision, I zeroed in on my empty hand while everything else became blurry.

I seriously came about 2 deep breaths away from wrapping my coat around my fist and breaking in a window to get back into my house. (On a side note, I have broken into my own home twice before with nary a broken window. That probably says more about the security of the house more than my stealth and cunning, however.)

Thanks to some rational thinking and my fellow ‘Ville-billy Kelly, I didn’t have to do that. Yay!

There’s an even longer funnier part to this story that involved me nursing my baby in my office just before my meeting and my hair is still soaking wet and barely combed out from my shower (on account that I was going to do my hair after picking up The Girl from daycare, but I effectively rendered us both homeless for the afternoon), but I’m just too worn out to relay the story.

So just take my word for it, it was painful to go through but funny to reflect upon.

This is for my UI homies, all 2 of them.

So what is “Faking Santa”? See for yourself:

Eric’s daughter Olivia with Santa in 2004

Reese with Santa in 2007

So here it is, my first foray into parental deception with my firstborn. I hope one day she’ll forgive me, and perhaps she may even have a sense of humor about it.

Being carless on a snow day always leads to hijinks

Her Monday morning post had me choking on my decaf tea.