Not for the babies. Nothing but the best unbleached cotton pre-folds for their cute little tushies. No, the Pampers are for me.
Remember the crazy astronaut lady who drove across the country wearing diapers to kidnap her romantic rival? Perhaps we were all too quick to judge. I'm not advocating deluded cross-country treks to tie people up with duct tape. Just diapers. For grown ups. And I don't mean Depends. I'm not looking for a little light leakage protection for those inconvenient times where I might laugh so hard I pee. I'm looking for pee-freely-all-day-long convenience.
Because I have two babies. And peeing, apparently, is a luxury not afforded to the likes of me. After my little grocery store bathroom/pee on the foot incident, I was pretty glad to have that awkwardness behind me.
So imagine my chagrin the other day when I took the babies out for errands and suddenly had to pee. Right. Now.
Unlike my episode in the grocery store, this time I was without help and therefore wearing one baby on front and one on back. And after my little episode in the grocery store, I determined that I was way too smart to even try and use a public restroom with babies hanging off all sides of me.
So I held it.
I made it through the store, loaded our purchases into the car, strapped both babies into their car seats, and begged my bladder to hold on until I could at least get out of the vehicle at home, at which point I fully expected to pee myself, but hey, at least I'd be at home with two six month olds as the only witnesses.
But then Kyle called. With car trouble. And needed me to meet him at the garage for a ride. In an hour. No time to make it home and wet myself.
And I decided, I can totally handle this. I had a birthday present that I needed to purchase, so I calmly made the decision to drive us to a department store, where I would strap one baby on my front, carry one, and make my way to the restroom like a normal human being. Relief being had, I would knock out another errand in purchasing the present, and we would then calmly exit the store and drive to the garage.
So I drove to the store. I strapped Rhys on my front and hoisted Quin onto my hip. We entered the store. I located the restrooms and shuffled in with the babies. I found an empty stall, squeezed inside, and somehow managed to slide the lock closed with my one free hand. Then, through some David Blaine-esque wonders of squirming and dexterity, I managed to hold onto Quin, see over Rhys, and unbutton, unzip, and ahhhhh. And then it was over, and I was all, "phew!"
Except it wasn't over. Because then I had to use my kind-of-free hand to wrestle with the toilet paper, and then attempt to re-button and re-zip while somehow managing to not drop a baby on the disgusting and gritty tiled floor. After quickly determining that it would be wholly inappropriate to set Quin down on said floor, I swung my leg up against the stall wall, perched Quin on top of it, and using the crook of my arm, hugged him around the waist to create enough free hand-age to properly clothe myself. It worked. But apparently, out of fear of dropping him into the toilet, I squeezed Quin just a teensy bit too hard. He made a sound like the emptying of a ketchup bottle, and let loose with the most foul smelling baby poop that's ever crossed my olfactory path.
No matter. Because I'm basically a professional mom and can deal with this sort of situation. We would quietly exit the restroom, select and purchase our gift, and finally squeeze in a quick diaper change in the car before picking up Kyle. Cake.
And then I remembered that in my haste to get out the door, I neglected to bring wipes. That I in fact said to myself, "I'm only going out for one quick errand. I'll only change a diaper in an absolute emergency. And in an absolute emergency, wipes...meh."
And then my little remembrance was broken by two loud wails. And it occurs to me that golly, babies need to eat. And since I was only going out for "one quick errand" I had kind of forgotten about that.
So we made our way through the store, dodging dirty looks and pretending not to notice the stench of feces or the FEED ME NOW DAMMIT cries emanating from my hungry little angels.
Channeling the optimism of the Little Engine That Could, I made it through checkout, signed our receipt with one lopsided hand, and dashed to the car. I settled one baby on the passenger seat, handed him a totally safe package of antibacterial hand wipes to play with, turned on the engine for a little AC, whipped out my boob for the other baby, and waited for the Mother of the Year award people to come find me like the Publisher's Clearinghouse people and their big fat checks. Or DCYF, either one.
With one satisfied baby and another hovering dangerously close to figuring out the child-proof wipes lid, I whipped out the other boob and switched babies. Discretion, privacy...meh. Once all were fed and happy, I strapped them into their little seats and crossed my fingers in hopes that we wouldn't end up with squished poop leaking down the sides of Quin's thighs and all over the car seat.
I drove to the garage while contemplating the poop situation. Poor Quin, sitting in poop. To change or not to change? And then got a call from Kyle that he was running late.
In all of my motherly glory, I somehow could not bring myself to let my little bee sit in his own fecal matter for one more minute. And at that moment I remembered my totally appropriate in-a-pinch toy; the antibacterial hand wipes! I quickly scanned the label, paying particular attention for any warnings to the tune of "do not use on your baby's genitals" and finding none, I pretended not to notice the warning to "ask a doctor" before use on anyone under the age of two.
I had him changed, re-diapered, and happily playing with an actual toy in his car seat before Kyle even arrived.
And I've like, totally got this motherhood thing down.
Yes, Quin has a raging diaper rash.
Yes, I am treating it. With actual diaper rash treatments, and not just an old can of Cherry Dr. Pepper I found in the back of my refrigerator.