It’s official, I’ve been fully baptized in the fluids of motherhood.
This weekend we packed Alva up and took a trip out to one of our favorite wineries, Rappahannock Cellars in Huntly, VA. You see, we’re members of their wine club and had about 8 months worth of wine shipments to pick up. I hadn’t exactly been in the condition to go visit a vineyard and furthermore being around such delicious libations would’ve been a bit of a tease to someone who was unable to enjoy them. So, as I said, we packed up the kid in the car and made the 65 mile or so trek out via Front Royal. We stopped for lunch at Spelunker’s, which will now go down as Alva’s first restaurant experience, and enjoyed burgers and fries. He was totally sacked out for the entire trip, which led me to believe that the time we spent at the winery would go one of two ways. A) He’s be an angel, snuggled up in the carrier, me rocking back and forth, him soothed by the comforting sounds of my heartbeat as I enjoyed a tasting with my husband. or B) He’d be fussy as all get out, unwilling to be comforted by a feeding before entering the tasting room and Chris would have to just go inside and pick up our large shipment of vino.
When we arrived at the winery, I removed him from the carseat and fed him in the back seat of the car, which seemed to take forever (it always does when you want to be somewhere) and he was doing his finest work to be the lazy eater I know him to be. I swear he falls asleep at the boob more often than not…in the middle of the night I don’t mind it so much as I tend to nod off as well, but when I’m wanting to get out of the car and get on with my day, it’s a bit frustrating. He fussed quite a bit post feeding and so I figured I’d check out his diaper situation. I laid the small changing pad in the middle of the back seat and disrobed my son from the waist down. He had a small bit of poop on his diaper, but apparently wasn’t done punctuating that sentence. I heard a fart noise followed by a gush of dookie. Keep in mind, I’ve got one hand holding his ankles together in the air and the other reaching for a wipe…projectile poopie ensued. Luckily I’m pretty quick with my reflexes and thought to put my hand over his wee butthole to prevent any more from escaping the confines of his ass. He managed to tag the changing pad, a little on the seat itself and, of course, my right hand. Thankfully being so little and being a breastfed baby, his doesn’t stink (too much) and he doesn’t make all that much at once. Still. I’ve now been peed on twice, spit up on a number of times, including down my cleavage as I was switching the burp cloth from one shoulder to the next, and shat upon. I suppose all that’s left is to be thrown up on, but I’m sure those days are ahead of me. There’s really not much else you can do in these situations but laugh. It’s part of the experience of parenthood. I’m certainly not the first mother to be pooped on and I know I won’t be the last, nor will this be my last time.
In the end, the kid was an angel inside the tasting room. He enjoyed the soothing live music being played and I got to enjoy splitting a tasting with my husband. He slept the entire way back from the winery as well. I’m pretty fortunate that my son, at one month of age, is mellow enough to tote around with us in public.