What's scarier than toting a tween and infant twins to Costco or the mall for an afternoon? Toting them across the country for a few days.
We started bringing the Beans out in public when they were very small. I think I soloed to the mall with them for the first time when they were about five months old. It really wasn't that bad. There was no pooping, screaming, barfing or melting down. If anything, they seemed to like it. It was nearly impossible to get into or around any of the stores but that wasn't really the point of the exercise. I really just wanted the Beans to be as easy-going and flexible as possible when it came to travel or a variation in the daily routine. We also walk around the park a lot in the stroller and I take them to the grocery store for dinner ingredients almost daily, so they're very used to getting out and seeing new people.
It all seemed to have paid off last week. We got to take the Beans with us to Hubby's son's graduation back East (sadly, Biscuit was still in school, so he didn't come this time and was sorely missed by everyone). So, not only did we get to see one of the coolest kids on the planet graduate from high school and hang out with him and his awesome mom for a few days, the Beans got to be there for it too, and they did absolutely splendidly-- up until the last four hours.
Seeing as how everything happens on the East coast three hours earlier than it does here, and since we were only there for four days, Hubby and I decided to keep the Beans on their California schedule. A wise move. Though it meant that we didn't really get up until 10 am local time and weren't able to get out the door until at least 11 or closer to noon, the little Beans were able to last until later in the evening and they had plenty of energy to smile and flirt and generally be their adorable little selves. They were even considerate enough to save their poop for early in the morning or at the end of the day when we were conveniently in the hotel and able to take care of it relatively easily. What perfect little angels!
Except for Saturday. I know what you're thinking: "One day? Only one day out of the whole vacation? Wow, you are one lucky duck!" Right. But Saturday was our day in the air. We were somewhere over Kansas when we noticed that Pooki (the stealthy pooper, remember) smelled a little off. Have you ever tried to change a monstrously stinky, gigantically poopy diaper at 32,000 feet in an airplane bathroom? Did you even know planes have changing tables? I didn't-- until Saturday. And I was fine just plodding along through life without ever having to put that nugget of wisdom in my pipe and smoke it, thank you.
Honestly, I don't know why engineers bother to put "changing tables" in the plane lavs. It must be a law and they must have done the bare minimum to meet the requirement. Seriously. I completely understand that space is at a premium on a plane, but come on! The Beans aren't that big to begin with. As babies go, they're both in about the 65th percentile for height and weight. And neither one fit on the platform without turning them diagonally so that their Bean noggins were directly in front of a vent blowing cold air directly in their faces. Imagine my chagrin when I closed the door, unfolded the table, and tried to turn around. Wasn't going to happen! Where do I put the diaper bag? On the floor? Of an airplane lav? I don't think so. Not if I ever want to touch it again. I tried hanging it on a hook and caught it just in time to keep it from falling on the Bean's head. And so it was that I cleaned about eight pounds of poop off of the diagonally-positioned Bean bottom with the diaper bag over my shoulder and one foot on the toilet and got not a spot of poop anywhere it didn't belong and, more importantly, kept the squiggly, squirmy little Bean from falling to her doom from the "changing table" to the floor. Yippee.
And so it was that I was feeling very accomplished and confident as I emerged from the lav to find Hubby standing near the door with the other Bean. No, she wasn't poopy, but it had been a few hours since she'd been changed and since we were already there we swapped babies and I changed the other one (admittedly not as carefully because she wasn't poopy, a move I would intensely regret in just a short time) while Hubby chatted up the flight attendants. He enjoyed that-- because you know, no woman can resist a guy with an adorable, flirty little baby strapped to his chest. Sometimes a guy just needs to have a little fun.
Anyhow, we finished up and returned to our seats. The flight was getting a little bumpy over the Rockies and the captain turned on the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign, so we strapped in and, of course, Pipsi started grunting. Really grunting. No problem, I thought. I just changed her and everything should be peachy keen. We'll get over the mountains and I'll scoot up to the front and take care of business. If only that was how it had happened.
We were still just under an hour away from landing. But the flight didn't smooth out. There must be something about the excitement of Vegas, where we were landing to change planes, that gets into the air and makes for a wild ride. I don't know. Maybe it's anticipation, or the ups and downs of the blackjack table, or all the hot air Celine Dion pumps into the atmosphere when she talks about herself, but we bobbled around like an apple in a water barrel for the rest of the ride. Ordinarily I wouldn't have minded but the smell emanating from Pipsi's bottom was unpleasant not only to me, but for everyone seated within a ten-row radius. It was ripe, rank, and reeky. This surprised me, honestly, because while Pipsi is dramatic in her bowel movements, they're not usually quite so stinky. It was when I repositioned her, removing the sweatshirt I'd used to cover her in an effort to minimize the stinkiness, that I realized that her pants were wet. This was not good. We were twenty-five minutes from landing and Pipsi's pants were fouled in the worst way possible. Wet poop. And it wasn't just on her.
It's funny. The TSA employee who'd examined the diaper bags when we first arrived at Dulles for check-in had commented that we were "very prepared". And I thought we were. We had two extra pairs of pants, four shirts and a handful of bibs, extra bottles, toys, and a couple of bags of Cheerios and jars of baby food with their own spoons from home and bottles of hand sanitizer. But I never considered bringing a change of clothes along for myself in case the Beans pooped on me.
We started bringing the Beans out in public when they were very small. I think I soloed to the mall with them for the first time when they were about five months old. It really wasn't that bad. There was no pooping, screaming, barfing or melting down. If anything, they seemed to like it. It was nearly impossible to get into or around any of the stores but that wasn't really the point of the exercise. I really just wanted the Beans to be as easy-going and flexible as possible when it came to travel or a variation in the daily routine. We also walk around the park a lot in the stroller and I take them to the grocery store for dinner ingredients almost daily, so they're very used to getting out and seeing new people.
It all seemed to have paid off last week. We got to take the Beans with us to Hubby's son's graduation back East (sadly, Biscuit was still in school, so he didn't come this time and was sorely missed by everyone). So, not only did we get to see one of the coolest kids on the planet graduate from high school and hang out with him and his awesome mom for a few days, the Beans got to be there for it too, and they did absolutely splendidly-- up until the last four hours.
Seeing as how everything happens on the East coast three hours earlier than it does here, and since we were only there for four days, Hubby and I decided to keep the Beans on their California schedule. A wise move. Though it meant that we didn't really get up until 10 am local time and weren't able to get out the door until at least 11 or closer to noon, the little Beans were able to last until later in the evening and they had plenty of energy to smile and flirt and generally be their adorable little selves. They were even considerate enough to save their poop for early in the morning or at the end of the day when we were conveniently in the hotel and able to take care of it relatively easily. What perfect little angels!
Except for Saturday. I know what you're thinking: "One day? Only one day out of the whole vacation? Wow, you are one lucky duck!" Right. But Saturday was our day in the air. We were somewhere over Kansas when we noticed that Pooki (the stealthy pooper, remember) smelled a little off. Have you ever tried to change a monstrously stinky, gigantically poopy diaper at 32,000 feet in an airplane bathroom? Did you even know planes have changing tables? I didn't-- until Saturday. And I was fine just plodding along through life without ever having to put that nugget of wisdom in my pipe and smoke it, thank you.
Honestly, I don't know why engineers bother to put "changing tables" in the plane lavs. It must be a law and they must have done the bare minimum to meet the requirement. Seriously. I completely understand that space is at a premium on a plane, but come on! The Beans aren't that big to begin with. As babies go, they're both in about the 65th percentile for height and weight. And neither one fit on the platform without turning them diagonally so that their Bean noggins were directly in front of a vent blowing cold air directly in their faces. Imagine my chagrin when I closed the door, unfolded the table, and tried to turn around. Wasn't going to happen! Where do I put the diaper bag? On the floor? Of an airplane lav? I don't think so. Not if I ever want to touch it again. I tried hanging it on a hook and caught it just in time to keep it from falling on the Bean's head. And so it was that I cleaned about eight pounds of poop off of the diagonally-positioned Bean bottom with the diaper bag over my shoulder and one foot on the toilet and got not a spot of poop anywhere it didn't belong and, more importantly, kept the squiggly, squirmy little Bean from falling to her doom from the "changing table" to the floor. Yippee.
And so it was that I was feeling very accomplished and confident as I emerged from the lav to find Hubby standing near the door with the other Bean. No, she wasn't poopy, but it had been a few hours since she'd been changed and since we were already there we swapped babies and I changed the other one (admittedly not as carefully because she wasn't poopy, a move I would intensely regret in just a short time) while Hubby chatted up the flight attendants. He enjoyed that-- because you know, no woman can resist a guy with an adorable, flirty little baby strapped to his chest. Sometimes a guy just needs to have a little fun.
Anyhow, we finished up and returned to our seats. The flight was getting a little bumpy over the Rockies and the captain turned on the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign, so we strapped in and, of course, Pipsi started grunting. Really grunting. No problem, I thought. I just changed her and everything should be peachy keen. We'll get over the mountains and I'll scoot up to the front and take care of business. If only that was how it had happened.
We were still just under an hour away from landing. But the flight didn't smooth out. There must be something about the excitement of Vegas, where we were landing to change planes, that gets into the air and makes for a wild ride. I don't know. Maybe it's anticipation, or the ups and downs of the blackjack table, or all the hot air Celine Dion pumps into the atmosphere when she talks about herself, but we bobbled around like an apple in a water barrel for the rest of the ride. Ordinarily I wouldn't have minded but the smell emanating from Pipsi's bottom was unpleasant not only to me, but for everyone seated within a ten-row radius. It was ripe, rank, and reeky. This surprised me, honestly, because while Pipsi is dramatic in her bowel movements, they're not usually quite so stinky. It was when I repositioned her, removing the sweatshirt I'd used to cover her in an effort to minimize the stinkiness, that I realized that her pants were wet. This was not good. We were twenty-five minutes from landing and Pipsi's pants were fouled in the worst way possible. Wet poop. And it wasn't just on her.
It's funny. The TSA employee who'd examined the diaper bags when we first arrived at Dulles for check-in had commented that we were "very prepared". And I thought we were. We had two extra pairs of pants, four shirts and a handful of bibs, extra bottles, toys, and a couple of bags of Cheerios and jars of baby food with their own spoons from home and bottles of hand sanitizer. But I never considered bringing a change of clothes along for myself in case the Beans pooped on me.
What happened? Eventually we landed and got off the plane, trailing the stench of poopy pants behind us. Eventually we changed Pipsi's diaper and clothes and she smelled great and smiled her beautiful smile and fell asleep. I desperately scrubbed at my pants with baby wipes and eventually just pretended that I wasn't the one who smelled like poop, occasionally looking around and frowning a little like I was trying to figure out the source of the poop smell and maybe (hopefully) looking innocent.
All things considered, even though we had a not-so-auspicious finish to the trip, the vacation as a whole was certainly a thoroughly enjoyable success and we would do it again in a New York minute. We lived, we laughed, we loved, we smelled like poop-- and we had a great time. And congratulations again to the newest, bestest grad in the family!!!!
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