Monday, September 17, 2007

A few easy steps to quick car service.

Every once in a while, some other blogger describes in detail mentions that their disgusting offspring lovely child yacked. While I know that they are only mentioning this because they were completely grossed out in love and care for said offspring; I share the following because it was absolutely disgusting. And, in all honesty, what could possibly be more fun than someone else's misery, eh?

Imagine, if you will, about 2 1/2 years ago.

T was still in the oven. I need to point out that I am not a delicate flower that gets a little basketball to smuggle under my shirt when pregnant. I grow in disgusting proportions. I loved being pregnant. I did not love, however, that my belly prevented me from fitting in restaurant booths and that my ass got just as big. I didn't like that I not only couldn't do the bikini shave, I couldn't even see those parts. I didn't bounce around like a bouyant soon-to-be mom, I lumbered. I remember looking at my ankles and marveling - how the hell did I ever reach those to pull on socks before?

So, imagine my lumbering ass carting a 2 1/2 year old (35 pound) B around.

DH (who gets up earlier than I do and starts breakfast for the wrecking crew) told me when I lumbered in the latest tent maternity wear to the kitchen that B seemed a wee bit "off" that morning.

I thought, well, I am just getting the car serviced this morning, and won't get much work done today anyway. Hell, I'll just pull him from daycare. If he had a problem there, not only do they scold you, but you get the dreaded pink paper to sign saying that he can't come back until he shows complete intestinal integrity (meaning two days of lumbering, sweaty and huffing, after a two year old).

So, off we go, to service the car. I peed before I left the house, took the fifteen minute drive to the service station, peed once I got there, and sat down to chase a cranky toddler around the fancy, brand-spanking-new (carpeted, upholstered, painted) waiting room. I went to pee again (it had been at least 20 minutes).

The bathroom there was kind of large, no stalls. So, I took B in with me. He could reach the door (and was ready to open it). So, I dragged him over to the john, and tried to hold his hand while I was on the john. He wouldn't be contained that way (dragging, screaming, trying to flop to the floor). So, to pee in their bathroom, I had to hold B on my lap. Then, I held the door with my foot while I put myself back together. Back to play with their new train table in the waiting room.

Hmmmmm. B is starting to take on a green tinge. He doesn't seem quite as happy. Indeed, he seems almost frenetic. I took him out to the tiled lobby (where he tried climbing into all of the new showroom models). "No, not in the cars dear".

"Come on, dear, mommy needs to use the potty again".

So, in we went. B was really squirmy. So, up onto my lap he went while I peed. That is when things get interesting.

He gets that look, the about to erupt look (confused, grimacing, coughing, ut-oh). So, I lift him and start to hold him out in front of me. But, there isn't enough room in front of me. So, when he starts to throw up (projectile fashion) the puke starts on my chest and cascades (two whole yogurts, an orange juice, and an oatmeal - smells spoiled - oh, and chunky too) down my front and (given my belly at that time) globs of puke roll from my belly into my underwear. So, I start to readjust to avoid more puke in my underpants and it starts to drip down the back of my pants. I readjust, it drips down the front of my pants and down the front of B. I set him on the floor (but I had to hold his hand as he struggled to get away, crying and shrieking). He pukes again. He starts his pathetic crying.

I grab gobs of toilet paper and start wiping him off. He cries. He pukes more. The paper sticks to his face. It sticks to his shirt. I have to hold his hand hostage. The toilet is now full of puke-covered toilet paper - so, I flush. Don't you hate the feeling of flushing a toilet while you sit on it. It gets worse... it overflows. Puke, paper, and etc. start flowing all over the bathroom.

I start to try to get the gobs of puke out of my underpants and the inside (and outside) of my pants and off the front of my shirt as nuclear waste flows all over the floor. I took B over to the sink, but I had to carry him now because the he was in absolute panic and escape mode - the puking scared the little guy.

Finally, and imagine this, I will never (in my life) forget this feeling - I had to cut my losses and stand up and pull up my pants to leave the bathroom. Pull those wet, gobby puke filled underpants and pants with bits of paper in them over my monstrous thighs, over my pregnant belly, up until they would stay put.

On the other hand. You have never seen service personnel finish auto service faster. They had my car done and to the front of the shop in the time it took to gag everyone else in the shop (about a millisecond).

Now, you can just imagine how nice it felt to sit down in my freshly fixed car.

1 comment:

richgold said...

Thanks for the laugh, and the reminder. I have a similar story involving MY overalls, and my first child unit. Though, thankfully, no car, no pregnancy!