So, Hubby has off from work today, and he knows I have been feeling a little down, so he offers to take me out for a nice lunch. Baby Girl being the social butterfly she is, she is always well behaved in public, so a lunch date for three sounds perfectly reasonable, lovely even. So, I put some clean jeans on me a new dress on Baby Girl (because she is always better dressed than I am. Always), and we head out the door.
We are seated immediately at the restaurant, and all I can think is how lovely a day it is. We get to the table, I strap her into the high chair, and the waitress takes our drink orders (water for me, of course) and smiles at Baby Girl who promptly giggles and poses - does this kid know she's cute or what? Then I glance down at my shirt which feels wet, thinking oh man, did she spit up on me already? But it isn't spit up.
So, with only half a word to my husband, I grab Baby Girl and the diaper bag and jet to the bathroom. Now, this is the kind of restaurant where the bathrooms have pumps of scented soap. And a bottle of lotion. And hairspray. And mouthwash. You know, just in case.
And I'm in the biggest stall of the bathroom, with Baby Girl strapped to a changing table, prattling away to keep her from crying, and swabbing desperately at my shirt with a Shout Wipe. Only the poop isn't coming off, it's just kind of spreading. Now I have a giant beige wet spot on my shirt. And I have a change of clothes for the baby, but somehow she didn't get any poop on her clothes. Just mine. Thanks sweetie.
I go back to the table and quietly explain to hubby what happened. His eyes get wide and he asks if I want to leave, but I really don't, so I strap Baby Girl back into the high chair and look at my menu. The old ladies at the next table coo at her, and she hams it up. The waitress takes our order.
Then Baby Girl starts fussing. Hubby picks her up, but she just squirms. I try to hold her, but no luck. Finally I concede that she must be hungry.
Now, I'm a big breast feeding advocate, and I have no problem with nursing in public. I don't think it's offensive at all, and I am totally all for it.
Except, y'know, when it's my boob.
But I'm pretty handy with a receiving blanket, so I slide to the back of the booth and try to feed her. Only she won't latch. MY baby? Who would nurse every 20 minutes if given the options? Is this a pod baby? And just as the waitress comes back with our food, she throws the blanket off me in order to look up and see who's coming.
Once we get everything, ahem, covered again, she finally starts to eat and I realize that I can't eat a crabcake sandwich with one hand. Hubby tries to help. ("Should I feed you? Should I move your plate?") I sigh, and pick at some french fries, trying to secure the blanket and maintain an adult conversation.
Then, inexplicably, Baby Girl decides to scream at the top of her lungs.
And miraculously, hubby scoops her up. Walks outside with her. And I am sitting there, still collecting myself, when he comes back with an un-crying baby and slides into the booth next to me.
And, finally, I am able to eat my almost-warm crab cake and talk to my husband. I smile and look around and am so grateful to be there, in this lovely restaurant with the two loves of my life.
And, y'know, with poop on my shirt.