Parenting: The Shart Nobody Tells You About

Parenting: The Shart Nobody Tells You About

Disclaimer: If poop scares you.  Just turn back around and leave now.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Shell shocked.  I’m totally shell shocked.  I can still smell the putrid sweet stench of the shart that brought my errands day to a screeching halt.

“Mommy, my tummy.  Mommy, my tummy.”

She arches her back refusing to sit in the shopping cart.  I grab her pull her out and begin a hurried dash to the restroom at the grocery store.

We’d just arrived.  I’d had the chance to grab two items off of my  list, and luckily I start with the non-perishables.

Living in Florida and living on a military installation means that we have A LOT of retirees (read: super senior citizens) in varying states of mobility (read: parking their scooters in the middle of the aisle), so I had to run a human obstacle course with a 35 pound deadweight in one arm, while prepping our folding potty seat in the other.

We juke our way into the bathroom.  I set her down helping her prep herself to sit on the toilet.  As I help her scoot her undies down…my thumb catches the ooze of a totally non-solid shart.

The aroma of the root cause of the “my tummy” smacks me in the face.  I know I have to get her on the potty as fast as I can, throwing all care and caution about the state of her underwear, leggings, and skirt to the wind.

I dash to the sink and wash my hands as I immediately start surveying the crisis.

Undies are toast.  So are the leggings.  The skirt is moist, unstained, but hellaciously stinky.  I give it a quick wash with soap and attempt to wring it out dry. I have no change of clothing on me right now.  And I have no back up.

I know I have my potty bug-out bag in the car.  DAMN IT.  Why didn’t I bring it with me?!  What was I thinking?!

Thank goodness for the same retirees I lambasted for blocking my path the the bathroom because I had a steady stream of grandmotherly women coming in and out of the bathroom.  I had to ask somebody to wait with La Rubia while I went and grabbed her clothing.

I sprint to the car, grab the bag, and get back to the restroom in like 1 minute flat.

Extra undies…check.  Extra pants?  Nope.  Shit.  Literally.

The shart smell overpowered the bathroom.  I felt so mortified we’d fumigated the bathroom.  Those poor, poor ladies.

La Rubia refused to attempt to go potty…so I wiped her down the best I could.  I put new undies on her but we were pants-less.  Wet skirt it was.

We return to shopping because I’m a masochist.

I couldn’t focus.  The stench of the crisis cemented itself in my nostrils.  Or so I thought.  As I scratch my nose, I notice the smell getting stronger.  I still have poop crusted under the nail of my pointer finger.  Barf.

Even after I clean it up, I can’t get the smell to go away.  I really hope nobody else smelled it.  Surely it was just my imagination, right?

About 15 minutes later she calls “my tummy” again.

Why didn’t I just leave the first time?!  We run back.  False alarm.  I momentarily consider continuing our shopping, but just couldn’t bring myself to tempt fate a third time.

I toss in the towel and leave.

Lessons Learned:
Shart happens at the least convenient time
Always have a complete change of clothing or two in the car
When it comes to poop, don’t tempt fate

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  1. omg, I was just giggling like an idiot and felt like I might be sick all at once.

    Motherhood. We deserve a medal.
    Andrea recently posted..I remember.My Profile

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