Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Birth control for the younger crowd

Last week, Biscuit wouldn't nap. At all. I held her, I pushed her in the stroller, I rocked her in the swing, I cradled her in the sling. Nothing. Her red demon eyes only shone brighter. To force her into it, I drove the 45 minutes down south to my buddy Lou's house. I wasn't even sure she was around, but I desperately needed adult contact and a long car ride to put Harps to zzzzz.

Luckily she was there (with delicious baby in tow). We had a lovely visit, I regained some semblance of my sanity, and we hit the road after a couple hours.

I'm feeling totally smug that we've made it off the freeway and onto the city streets without any major car jams or small person meltdowns. But ten minutes away from home, cruising along a line of uncooperative traffic lights, Harps started wailing. Not fussing, not crying. Wailing. Red faced, fists clenched, choking on her sobs, break-your-heart-in-half wailing.

There was no way I could make it home, so I pulled off the Embarcadero, onto a wind-y side street. I found an illegal spot, nestled between another car and a fire hydrant, and parked. Hazards flashing, I jumped out of the car and scooped up the Biscuit. Within seconds, I smelled the problem. Serious, serious bum leakage.

So there I was: Target sweats, illegally parked, middle of the city, wailing, poop-smeared baby in hand.

Deep breath, deep breath.

I spot a patch of grass nearby. Score!

Juggling Harps and her diaper bag (which I'd come thisclose to not bringing along) I make it to the grass, lay down the portable diaper changey thing (thank you, Manj!!!) and strip her down. The diaper is 109% filled with liquid, mustardy, noxious junk. Leaking down her legs, up her back, all over my hands. She's naked (in 50 degree weather) and screaming and kicking as a large group of female joggers pass us by.

"Hi!" I say, waving a yellowed hand.

They run faster.

Somehow I wipe most of the offending smell away and bundle everything bad into a little package. Harps is quickly into a new dipe and her poop-stained onesie is buttoned back up. I strap her back down into the car seat and speed off toward home.

Only she's back to screaming again.

I'm literally 7 minutes from home, but I don't think we can make it.

At this point, we're cruising down Broadway -- our former street-o'-residence, but also, in parts, where the nakie girls like to dance in shiny-signed clubs. This is where I pulled over. And whipped out my boob. And fed her. In daylight, in my car, no nursing cover. But she finally calmed down. Cuz here's the thing. Mine not be what the passerby are used to, but they'll do. They'll do just fine.


  1. I'm popping twenty extra birth control pills as I'm reading this!!!!! Kidding of course but being a mama sounds rough sometimes! It sounds like you're rocking at it though & seeing your beautiful baby every day probably makes up for poopy hands and exposing your boobies in public. Perky or not, they're keeping our lovely Harps alive! YAY BOOBS!!

  2. Waving a yellowed hand....Amy, this made me laugh out loud. What an entertaining blog, yet I know you want to reach those ladies thinking they may have it all together to become Moms. You are sometimes getting a glimpse (when Harper takes a scheduled nap) of a time when sanity will return. Just keep that great sense of humor...and the pictures we all look for everyday. Cindy

  3. As if the 382479 types of contraceptives we use were not enough, THANK YOU.

    Glad you handled it, poor Mama Amy! Love that you can still keep your sense of humor.

  4. And you want me to have a baby, too?

  5. I love this post. I really like the way you write. So glad to be catching up!


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