When I got to the airport, people told me I was “brave” for flying alone with two kids. I wasn’t sure if I was more brave or stupid, but either way I was flying halfway across the US to St. Louis. It was going to be rough because 1) Getting to my hometown is never easy. It’s always an hour or so at the airport, a couple of hours of flying, and then a couple of hours of driving; and 2) My youngest got sent home from daycare yesterday because, as they told my husband, they found her sitting in a “puddle of poop.” I think they meant it, literally. (This wasn’t the first day of the runny-poo, but it sounds like this was the worst of it.) The reality of 5-6 hours of traveling by myself with a baby who had diarrhea was daunting, to say the least. I wanted to cry, and seriously considered cancelling the trip.
My husband helped me prepare for this adventure by buying size 3 “nighttime” diapers (half-a-size bigger than needed and more absorbent) and plastic bloomers. My thought was that I could “double bag” her, then wrap her in plastic, thereby warding off any pooptastrophes. The theory was good, right? Just in case this wasn’t enough, I packed 2 extra outfits in the diaper bag, along with plastic bags and 2 packages of wipes for clean-up. I wasn’t going to be caught unprepared. Ultimately, I had hoped my little one would have her poopsplosion prior to take-off, and wishfully was hoping it would occur before we even left the house (obviously asking too much). Because I knew it was coming, I made sure all the reinforcements were in place prior to boarding – Double diapered, check. Plastic pants, check. Prepared Mom, double check.
We made it most of the way through the flight before “the signs” began, and at the first sign of grunting, I braced for impact. I naively thought that grunting might be a good sign – like perhaps there was something more substantive to her poo than just liquid, maybe the applesauce and toast were working, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. I waited for her to finish her business, asked the nice lady in the aisle seat to watch my oldest for me, and politely excused myself to go change the stench. The baby and I waited a bit before the changing table bathroom was available, and all the time I’m praying “please don’t leak, please don’t leak, please don’t leak.” Needless to say, I pulled down her britches in anticipation. I took down the plastic bloomers and saw nothing. Opened diaper number 1 and saw nothing. Thus far, very good. Diaper number 2 was definitely full (and nasty) but it didn’t leak up the back or around the legs. Five wipes later (yes, five – it was still a mess) and I was patting myself on the back for a job well done. Way to go, prepared mom.
And then…..
I turned to throw the old diaper away and get the new diaper all squared away when I felt something warm hit my leg. What the……??? There was definitely a moment where I wasn’t sure what was happening – and then it hit me (literally): that was poop erupting from my cute little baby’s bottom. Erupting. Erupting all over me. Erupting all over the wall. Erupting all over the airplane bathroom. “I can handle this, I’m prepared,” I calmly thought. I grab the wipes, move the blanket, get her pants out of the way. Wipes in hand, I start cleaning her again, without regard for the stinky, raunchy poo dripping down my leg AND the wall. Before I can get the diaper in place, she erupted again like the blowhole on a whale. Now there is more stinky, raunchy poo dripping down my leg, the wall, the sink, the toilet, and any other surface you can imagine in an airplane bathroom.
At this point the shock of the experience wanes and panic starts to set in. Now I am scrambling. How in the HELL am I gonna get out of this one? I am obviously scathed (as opposed to escaping unscathed, the original plan). And not only am I scathed, I am dripping poop down my legs, I am standing in poo that has either hit the floor directly or dripped from the wall to the floor (it doesn’t matter how it got to my flip flops and feet, it’s disgusting), and am out of contingency plans. I am frantically cleaning, trying to get some sort of cleanish diaper under my baby when, as if in one last hurrah, she gives a last little squirt, just for good measure.
Somewhere in all the cleaning and wiping I realize I am beat. There is NO coming back from this one, as all the preparation in the world could NOT have prepared me for this. Talk about Ultimate Fail. I open the door a sliver and meet eyes with the first flight attendant I see – she is nice enough but (as she tells me later) has no kids and can’t deal with the situation she sees before her. At the first flight attendant’s gasp, the second flight attendant rushes over and I can instantly see she is a mom who understands my plight. She rushes to gather more bathroom towels and then grabs a club soda for my pants, and in the meantime a lady from the last row has come over to try to help. I am trying to shoo them away from the toxic mess, but thank god there are some good-hearted people out there who are willing to sacrifice!
There is literally a “crowd” (of sorts – lots of people peering back to the bathroom, lots of chatter) gathering, and I am visibly shaking. The baby, tired of laying on the changing table, is now diapered and squirming, her business all completed. Somehow, she is surprisingly clean – her blanket and clothes hardly touched by the complete $h!t-aster. The lady from the last row offers to hold her while I clean up, which sends my “Stranger Danger” daughter into fuss mode, so the door stays open and the lady holds the baby in clear view of me and the disaster she created – as if she is admiring her work.
I work frantically to clean, all the while the pilot is calling “please return to your seats for final descent into St. Louis.” The flight attendant is now telling me I need to sit down because the plane needs to land – can’t she SEE me? Can’t she SMELL me? I seriously have to return to my seat? I fend her off for as long as I can but eventually she makes me go back to my seat, with that little poop beast in my arms. There are visible (and smellable) areas of stinky, raunchy poo on my pants and shirt, but I’ve managed to clean up my feet and shoes in the bathroom sink. (I dumped the whole can of club soda on my pants, so I’m hoping that is working to do whatever it is club soda does.)
I make it back to my seat to find my oldest daughter has taken off her seat belt and is just starting to get a little rambunctious – someone had checked on her at least once during the ordeal and assured me she was being good, so thank goodness for that – by this time, I’m counting the small blessings. I get her gathered up, “enjoy” a nice landing and quick taxi (coincidence? Or do you think they called ahead???) wait my respective turn to get off the plane, and head out into Lambert Airport covered in poo. By this time it’s not as visible as it is smellable, but I know it’s there and that it is GROSS, and I get to go to baggage claim and wait, reeking of ick.
I contend that there are flight attendants and people riding on that fateful DEN-STL flight who will never forget me or my poopy baby. We are the stuff legends are made of. I’m not sure whether they continued to look at me as brave or stupid, or just a raunchy mess of poo. And, in case you are wondering (and in case you think I’m exaggerating), the flight attendants were planning on completely closing that bathroom off for the rest of the day until they could get it completely (and deeply) cleaned. We are overachievers, after all - we don’t do things half-assed. Glad my little imp already has that engrained in her genetic code. 
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