First, realize and accept this Universal Law: that all babies like to poop into a clean diaper. So don’t be surprised to have that unique doody scent wafting your way immediately after you have just changed your baby. Second, throw in the fact that you are flying across country for 6 hours and 6 minutes on an A-319, which for the uninitiated, is like flying in a cigarette holder with wings. Which means, there is just the one aisle, and everyone on the plane, seemingly, has to use the lavatory at the same time your baby has pooped. So get in line. Third, let’s complicate the scenario even further by having the baby going through her “Mommy-only” phase, which means, not only are your arms about to break off from holding her during the whole flight, but you are going to have to be the one to change her poopie, too. Because she won’t have it any other way.
Now you’re in line and doing your best to hold your baby, hold in your annoyance, and hold your breath, because this particular diaper dump is a doozy. You have finally made it to the front of the line, and you’re feeling a sense of relief but also dread – relief that the wait is almost over, dread of what you’ll find when you finally have a look inside that nappy. Along comes a 9-year-old kid, the son of a VERY talkative mother who came up to you before takeoff and started pinching your baby’s cheeks and saying, “How cuuuuuuuuuuute.” He bulls his way past the five people behind you and squeezes past you and your baby, and goes straight up to the flight attendant and announces, “I have a stomach ache.” Note: you are not feeling particularly friendly towards this kid, because he has been kicking the back of your seat for the duration of the flight thus far. Nor are you feeling particularly fond of his parents, because they have done nothing to stop him from pulverizing your back and disturbing your hard-won sleep.
The flight attendant says, “How about I give you a glass of water or some ginger ale? Sometimes that settles an upset stomach.” The kid nods. He gets his ginger ale, but he stays firmly planted in front of the lavatory. The flight attendant tells him, “You’re going to have to wait in line if you want to go to the bathroom, son. See all these people? They were already waiting.” The kid nods, seemingly understanding and agreeing. But when the door to the bathroom opens, he tries to rush in, almost knocking down the passenger coming out. The flight attendant says to him, very sternly, “Go to the back of the line and wait, kid.” The kid says, on the verge of tears, “I have to poop really bad! My stomach hurts!” And slips into the restroom and bars the door behind him, faster than you can say, “@#$%@#$!” (Not that you would want to say @#$%@#$, because you’re holding your baby in your arms, and you don’t want her to start off in life with the wrong vocabulary). What can you do, really, other than laugh helplessly and tell your baby, “You’d better not act like that when you grow older, or Mommy is going to try to flush you down the toilet ?”
When you get inside the bathroom (after the kid has gone in and peed all over the floor and forgotten to flush), pull down the panel above the toilet with your free arm to create a platform for your baby. Use that arm to put a few drops of Thyme essential oil on a tissue and wipe the platform thoroughly, to kill all the cooties any previous babies and their Moms and other rude 9-year-old-kids may have left. Make sure you have a thousand wipes with you because the other Universal Law is that when it’s the most inconvenient for you, your baby will have a messy, sticky, and difficult-to-clean poopie. Don’t try to reason with the baby while she arches her back in protest and screams her head off while you attempt to pry off her diaper – you wouldn’t want to be changed in an airplane bathroom either. Keep your sense of humor about, especially when you realize that the poop is so ubiquitous, you’ve got it on your fingers, and there is no real way to both block the baby from rolling off the platform and wash your hands at the same time. And finally, pray that turbulence doesn’t strike just as you’re rolling up the dirty diaper and chucking it in the overflowing trash bin. ‘Cause that would just be too perfect of a cosmic joke.
Now you’re in line and doing your best to hold your baby, hold in your annoyance, and hold your breath, because this particular diaper dump is a doozy. You have finally made it to the front of the line, and you’re feeling a sense of relief but also dread – relief that the wait is almost over, dread of what you’ll find when you finally have a look inside that nappy. Along comes a 9-year-old kid, the son of a VERY talkative mother who came up to you before takeoff and started pinching your baby’s cheeks and saying, “How cuuuuuuuuuuute.” He bulls his way past the five people behind you and squeezes past you and your baby, and goes straight up to the flight attendant and announces, “I have a stomach ache.” Note: you are not feeling particularly friendly towards this kid, because he has been kicking the back of your seat for the duration of the flight thus far. Nor are you feeling particularly fond of his parents, because they have done nothing to stop him from pulverizing your back and disturbing your hard-won sleep.
The flight attendant says, “How about I give you a glass of water or some ginger ale? Sometimes that settles an upset stomach.” The kid nods. He gets his ginger ale, but he stays firmly planted in front of the lavatory. The flight attendant tells him, “You’re going to have to wait in line if you want to go to the bathroom, son. See all these people? They were already waiting.” The kid nods, seemingly understanding and agreeing. But when the door to the bathroom opens, he tries to rush in, almost knocking down the passenger coming out. The flight attendant says to him, very sternly, “Go to the back of the line and wait, kid.” The kid says, on the verge of tears, “I have to poop really bad! My stomach hurts!” And slips into the restroom and bars the door behind him, faster than you can say, “@#$%@#$!” (Not that you would want to say @#$%@#$, because you’re holding your baby in your arms, and you don’t want her to start off in life with the wrong vocabulary). What can you do, really, other than laugh helplessly and tell your baby, “You’d better not act like that when you grow older, or Mommy is going to try to flush you down the toilet ?”
When you get inside the bathroom (after the kid has gone in and peed all over the floor and forgotten to flush), pull down the panel above the toilet with your free arm to create a platform for your baby. Use that arm to put a few drops of Thyme essential oil on a tissue and wipe the platform thoroughly, to kill all the cooties any previous babies and their Moms and other rude 9-year-old-kids may have left. Make sure you have a thousand wipes with you because the other Universal Law is that when it’s the most inconvenient for you, your baby will have a messy, sticky, and difficult-to-clean poopie. Don’t try to reason with the baby while she arches her back in protest and screams her head off while you attempt to pry off her diaper – you wouldn’t want to be changed in an airplane bathroom either. Keep your sense of humor about, especially when you realize that the poop is so ubiquitous, you’ve got it on your fingers, and there is no real way to both block the baby from rolling off the platform and wash your hands at the same time. And finally, pray that turbulence doesn’t strike just as you’re rolling up the dirty diaper and chucking it in the overflowing trash bin. ‘Cause that would just be too perfect of a cosmic joke.