Uncle Frank Comes to Dinner

Us, happily and blissfully unaware of the poop wrath about to befall us.

Unless you’re a celebrity or have the money of one, when you become a parent all hope of glamour and sex appeal dies a tragic and unavoidable death. Conversations become about poop consistency and if you’re lucky, the poop you’re talking about is your child’s. Instead of dreams of Milano Blahniks, you begin to understand the allure of orthopedic shoes. Late nights that leave you disoriented and only half coherent aren’t the same kind of nights they used to be, and the caliber of a “nice” dinner plummets to the type of restaurant that gathers the entire wait staff to sing Happy Birthday. Not that parenting isn’t amazing. It is. It’s an adventure unlike any other. But what it’s not, is glamorous or sexy…

So when we decided to go out to dinner with Wes and meet his current girlfriend, Aly, it was one of the nicer events we’ve planned in the past 10 months. My hair wasn’t in its usual ponytail, I actually put on lipstick, and above all, I wore uncomfortable shoes. Our evening of glamour took a slight detour when we had to cruise around Arrowhead in the minivan, searching for Evan’s specific type of formula. But that can easily be recovered from.

Halfway through our search for the perfect formula, my dreams of being that completely organized and together mom I wish I was but fear I will never become, took a blow. Melinda called and told us we forgot the diaper bag. I hadn’t even noticed it was missing, although based on the lack of poo we had seen that day, I should have had it glued to my hip. Evan was withholding. Again. And I was getting scared. He’s on a stool softener which means he can try to hold it all he wants, but it’s coming out with or without his permission. And they’re no small poops.

I actually said the words to Melinda: “Don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine.”

But Melinda insisted. They were on their way out anyway, they would be heading in our direction… Glutton for punishment that I am, I actually told her for a second time that we didn't need it. But once again, and Thank You God, she insisted. An experienced mom knows these things. So instead of going straight out to celebrate her 40th birthday, Melinda and Art took a blessed detour and brought us our diaper bag.

By the time we pulled into the resturant parking lot, all hopes of being the on top of it parents were completely dead. We had wandered aimlessly for 30 minutes searching for our fomula (but we found it), we drove 20 minutes in the wrong direction in search of the restaurant, and we forgot the all important diaper bag. But as we pulled into the parking lot, things finally began to turn around. We got First Class Rock Star Parking five feet from the front door of the swanky restaurant Wes had chosen. Satara Thai Cuisine and Wine… BAR? Were we really those people? Were we really taking a baby into a bar? Leave it to the perpetual bachelor to choose an upscale wine bar. (Oh those days of not considering whether a restaurant is appropriate rather than just whether or not I wanted to eat there…)

Sometime between the appetizers and the main course, Uncle Frank showed up in all his glory. And I don’t mean Uncle Frank the person, I mean Uncle Frank’s namesake (see previous post).

Brad looked across the table at me with nothing but panic on his face.

“He needs his diaper changed,” he said as he jumped up, bypassed the bathroom and ran straight out the restaurant.

“Are you sure?” I asked, trying my best to keep up with his frenzied sprint towards the door.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

As far as Poop-Xplosions go – oh, excuse me, Uncle Franks – it was a relatively minor one. It oozed out the diaper and halfway up Evan’s back, soaking his new shirt, but there was no poop in the armpits, so we got off pretty easy. What makes this Uncle Frank especially noteworthy though, was the consistency. It was liquid poo. It looked like a diaper full of chocolate milk. So wet was this diaper, that when Brad took it off, I actually picked it up like I would Levi’s poop, grabbing a plastic bag, pulling it over my hand like a glove, and then grabbing the diaper with my “gloved” hand and turning the glove inside out. It couldn’t possibly have been picked up any other way. And it was HEAVY.

Consistency aside, what made this Uncle Frank more difficult than most, is we were minus the luxuries of home. When we got to the car, we couldn’t initiate our usual Poop Protocol because that would entail Brad and I both getting naked in the parking lot. We had no changing table to lay Evan on and no shower to usher him into. So, we improvised. We folded down the seats and turned the back of the minivan into a makeshift changing table. Next, we stripped Evan while he stood on the pavement next to the minivan. We actually had to pull his shirt down over his body rather than up and over his head to minimize the poop-sposure. Suddenly the luck that brought us our First Class Rock Star parking directly in front of the restaurant didn’t feel so lucky anymore.

At that moment, our night of glamour was made complete when an unsuspecting driver rounded the corner and illuminated Evan’s full moon in all its glory, the car's headlights like two spotlights. And there was Evan, happily prancing around, doing his naked baby dance, letting it all hang out, as blissful and happy as can be. And just like that, our Rock Star Parking turned to Porn Star Parking and that once prime real estate turned into a nuclear waste dump.

Ahhh, the adventures of parenting…they are adventures, but what they most certainly are not, are glamorous and sexy…