Snips and Snails and Poopy Tales

By Jane Thornton –

The Armpit Extended Hold.

Every person who has spent any time around infants or toddlers learns this vital protection strategy. Adult fingers wedged firmly in the hollows under the child’s shoulders, elbows locked to maximize distance and stability, caretakers allow the kid to dangle harmlessly a half yard from their own vulnerable clothing and sensitive nostrils.

When the nursery attendant interrupted my soulful rendition of “Sweet Hour of Prayer” with Matthew so suspended at arm’s length, I cannot say I set aside my praise time to face my motherly duty with any alacrity. The tricky transfer from her grip to mine was accompanied by empathetic chuckles from neighboring congregants. I tried to focus on the benefit of bicep development as I trekked to the ladies’ room with my aromatic toddler. Matt’s blue eyes twinkled with unwarranted innocence for the creator of the extensive mess I would discover.

We passed through the empty lounge area with its seventies shag and leatherette sofa to the cramped cubicle. A bountiful space for individual needs had seemingly shrunk when occupied by both my son and me and his diaper filled to quadruple its capacity. Without sharing too many gory details, let me say that if he’d been wearing anything but the precious corduroy, flannel-lined jumper, handmade by his loving aunt, the entire outfit would have been dumped in the trash. Luckily, my diaper bag held an entire box of wipes, which I used liberally.

After disrobing, wiping down, and disinfecting my little blessing, I set him outside the stall with instructions to stay put. I hiked my dress and hit my knees, not to pray, but to restore order for future occupants. All done, I heaved a sigh, made my fiftieth trip to the sink for a final scouring of my hands and forearms.

I did a double take. Surely not.

What were those brown tracks on the linoleum tile? I snatched Matt up for inspection and sniffed at his stained heel, hoping for mud. No such luck.

Upon further inspection, I determined that we must have dripped on our way into the room, and one sample landed just inside the doorway—in the lovely shag carpet.

With devilish timing, the benediction tolled over the PA system. I knelt in the shadow of the door and scrubbed one-handed, using the other to try to ward off the rush of elderly ladies who flooded the restroom at the end of every service.

When all was as clean as I could get it and I had resolved to call the janitor with a warning and request for rug sterilization, we ventured into the lobby and searched for my husband, planning a quick getaway. I almost gave Matt away to the second grandmother who patted his little bare back and told me I needed to put some clothes on the poor child.

My petty mind tried to blame the fiasco on indulgent grandparents who fed Matt an entire bunch of grapes the night before, but reason intervened and reminded me that such debacles are part of the reality of parenting. Part of life.

Living is messy. In His wisdom, God made it that way. Huge proportions of our humor and bonding stem from sharing our messes with each other. And Jesus, “too shared in [our] humanity…he had to be made like his brothers in every way, in order that he might become a merciful and faithful high priest in service to God . . . Because he himself suffered when he was tempted, he is able t help those who are being tempted” (Hebrews 2:14,17b-18 NIV).

Comment prompt: Any funny, yucky stories from other comrades in arms?