Ambitiously, I took 18-month-old Big E, to a friend’s wedding reception. It took place on one afternoon in NYC. I traveled with only my (unstylish) diaper bag and him in an ergo carrier.
There was a beautiful and (mercifully quick) ceremony in Fort Tryon Park, followed by a reception at the nearby New Leaf. Everything was gorgeous.
But about me.
Everybody coo’d over Big E. I was a star daddy for having ventured, on my own, to the wedding with a baby.
Then I smelled poop.
This was a doozy. I mean, pungent shit that other guests “admired”.
Before heading to the buffet line, I ducked into the bathroom.
There was no changing table in the microscopic men’s room.
I asked a waiter if there was a changing table anywhere.
“Ummm…not that I know of,” he said, blankly.
“Nowhere?” I asked, snidely.
“Ummm…not that I know of.”
I got huffy. “So is there a place to change an extremely smelly diaper besides on the restaurant floor?”
“Ummm…outside?” he offered.
I wanted to kick him in the head.
After quelling my sanctimonious rage, I asked, “Which way?”
He pointed to a stairwell.
I turned without thanking him (I’m sure that taught him a lesson) and headed down the stairs and out an exit door spitting me onto the delivery driveway.
I yanked the changing pad out of my (did I happen to mention unstylish?) diaper bag while clasping Ellison under my arm.
I could feel slime through his pants.
I lay Big E on the pad…on the driveway.
I unbuttoned his pants. Poop everywhere.
Unfortunately, he wore a white button-down dress shirt onesie.
I unsnapped the shirt, covering my fingers in what looked like Indian food but smelled like…well…Indian food.
In the undressing process, Big E’s back, neck and hair ended up slathered with Indian-food-shit.
I heaved. I gagged. I sweat.
Worse, I was on day 4 of the “spicy lemonade” cleanse. Already nauseous and headachey from caffeine withdrawal, I could have only barfed citrusy bile. I had no business at a wedding reception where I couldn’t eat. My stomach growled, my head pounded, my brow sweat. Profusely.
But Big E couldn’t have cared less.
I used 37 wipes but couldn’t effectively get the diarrhea out of his hair.
And in my diaper bag, I only found a pair of overalls. No shirt.
But I had to trash his onesie. So I dressed Big E in only the overalls. He looked like a J Crew hill-billy. I was nauseous. He stunk. We needed to go.
I made my apologies to the bride and groom, pointed to Big E’s poop-streaked hair, and quickly exited to avoid nauseating everyone (or uncontrollably throwing myself on the plate of another guest’s plate to steal one of their fries.)
OH LAWD HAVE MERCY. Let me just say that I DO NOT MISS THAT. I have thrown away more onesies than I can count, usually on airplanes or other terribly inconvenient places. (And on a professional note, I cannot believe you had the presence of mind to actually PHOTOGRAPH this debacle for your blog. That’s dedication.) I fell out laughing at all of it – particularly the image of your stanking kid, shirtless in overalls at a fancy wedding. Coping with “style?” Maybe not this once.