A simple morning outing consisting of hair-cuts for the girls followed by a trip to the park to play, why am I sitting in my robe having just finished my second shower thirty minutes after leaving the house?

Simple, an eight month old baby who jumped at the opportunity to explode through her diaper and clothes knowing Mommy left the house completely unprepared.

Chloe sat happily in my lap watching Hanna have her hair-cut. She grunted and twisted a little and I heard a few familiar sounds and smells emanating from her lower/diaper region. This went on for an unprecedented amount of time, until from the pumped-up, pimped out chair Hanna yelled over, “I can smell Chloe Mom. You should change her.”

So it wasn’t just me. The rest of the salon could smell it too and there were no other babies I could even begin to try to pin this on.

No public washroom, off I went to the van for what I thought would be a quick change, pay for the hair-cuts and look out park, here we come!

Wrong.

The first thing I felt walking out to the van was a warm sensation on my upper thigh. I knew this feeling all too well (the sun?) and I tried to will it away but it got warmer and wetter with each step towards the car.

Should I look down? Oh gross. A browny-green smear all over my capris led me to believe this was not a starting point but rather an end.

Chloe was covered from neck to heel in explosive diarrhea and I was dumbfounded.

Things I needed in order to control the situation:

A change pad
A diaper
Baby wipes
Clean clothes for Chloe
Clean clothes for me
A wash-cloth
A hot water source for sudsy, warm water
A baby bath-tub
An eye-wash station
Phone number to poison control
A nail file to get the poop from under every one of my fingernails
A nail brush to wash the nails after the scraping
Bleach to soak my white shirt
Ruby red vodka, tonic and fresh lime juice
Several plastic bags for Chloe’s diapers/wipes and both sets of our clothes
Jewellery cleaner that could get the poop out from in between the diamond and the setting under my solitaire and from around the tiny diamonds on my 10th anniversary band that Greg bought me for my 30th birthday, not realizing it was a 10th anniversary band
Scissors to remove the soaked onesie rather than having to roll it over her head thus allowing the feces to get caught in her neck crevices and hair
A bottle of water to replenish my fluids after searching the van for any or all of these items

Things I had:

A diaper

So, I knew I was in trouble.

I sourced a Tim Horton’s bag large enough to fit one tim-bit that would have to act as a garbage bag. I had a nearly empty Tim Horton’s cup from my tea that would become a make-shift diaper genie. OH MY GOD! I found a package of wipes under the driver’s seat. I almost cried tears of joy but quickly discovered I was left with a meagre three wipes and I would require at least 2000 for this job. Three golden wipes would have to be used strategically. Every fibre had a job and I would have to insist on maximum saturating power. Do I start with myself or the baby? Don’t they tell you to give yourself the oxygen mask on an airplane before saving the children?

Sorry Chloe, my hands followed by your……everything.

I look into the window at the salon of chuckling coiffeurs and my older girls smiling and waving.
Camping blanket!!! The camping blanket! I can lay her down on the plastic side so I don’t have to place her on the floor mats deliberately staining and stinking up the van requiring a full shampooing of all upholstery.

SHIT!!!!!!! Chloe just grabbed her leg with her right hand and her foot with her left, now her hands are covered too. Aside from the whites of our eyes, I’m not sure there was anything left unsoiled.
Continue waving at the window, be cool, this is life, you are a stay-at-home mother (doesn’t this job come with an assistant?), own it, laugh.

Leaning in, my sunglasses slip off their resting position on my head and nose-dive headfirst into the poop smear on the baby’s stomach. Into the tim-bit bag they go.

Chloe swings her hand wildly and manages to wipe poop on the bottom of her seat, more shampooing. This could be the most expensive diaper change in history. Whacking herself in the nose, more brown stuff to wipe, I start frantically dancing back and forth shifting my weight from one foot to the next. I have no idea why I was doing the potty dance, seemed an appropriate response from a lunatic.

I lugged a half-naked baby back into the salon to pay for the hair-cuts and pick up the girls. I told the stylist she should sanitize her hands after touching my credit card and after I typed in my pin on the keypad, the door handle and the chair we sat in before I ever noticed how big the problem would become.

Luckily, we are known in their system as “Hornsour” so I might just start using our real name for our next appointment.
As we started towards the house, Hanna shouted from the back-seat, oblivious to the torturous final moments of her styling,

“Mommy, are you lost? The park is back there! Turn around!”

I just need to swing by the house to sandpaper the remaining skin off my hands, contact the waste removal company and notify the Guinness book of records that we have a hands-down winner in a new category.