Imagine you are walking down a sunny block in the middle of New York City on a holiday weekend. The streets are almost deserted and you are sticky and happy after basking in the sun’s glory in Central Park for a few hours. You drank a beer wrapped in newspaper and ate berries purchased that morning at the Union Square farmer’s market. All in all, a fairly spectacular afternoon.
Now, picture this blissful scene gone horribly awry when you look down at your beautiful baby giggling in his stroller with his hands covered in shit. Yes, shit. His own shit, mind you, but that hardly matters. Apparently, somewhere between Park and Madison, my little love let out a gigantic poop that was no match for his diaper. The waste burst through both sides and left a nasty little puddle in his stroller that Mr. Monk was busy exploring with his fingers.
After my head exploded, I pulled the breaks on the stroller, grabbed the baby and immediately began the clean up process. Spreading the changing pad out on the middle of the sidewalk, I went to work trying to contain the damage before the fingers made their inevitable way into his mouth. Using every wipe I had, I managed to salvage the hazmat contamination. Unfortunately, I had gotten a little too comfortable in believing that Mr. Monk was past the blow out stage and left an extra outfit at home. Clearly I was not a girl scout. Given that it was about 90 degrees out, I figured we had about ten minutes before the smell of his stained onesie became unbearable. After wiping up the outfit and the stroller as much as I could, I came to the only logical conclusion that one could while walking with a shit-stained baby on 62nd street—let’s go shopping!
As we walked into Bloomingdales, I instinctively knew that Mr. Monk had orchestrated this whole fiasco just so that he could be in a giant store full of ladies. Apparently, everyone who didn't leave town for July 4 was in full on shopping mode. Thankfully his cute smile allowed the other elevator occupants to momentarily forget the foul odor coming from below. The salesladies took pity on me and gave me an extra 20% off the sales price for the snazzy new ensemble. Not the best way to get a bargain, but not the worst either.
While changing him in the bathroom, I met a woman who was trying to convince her 3-month-old that her breast and the milk therein was far more interesting than the wall he was busy staring at. As I was washing the poop off the stroller, I was telling her how much fun parenting is now. And it is, even on the shittiest days.