1. Clothe a small army of tiny humans
2. Entertain that small army in order to temporarily avoid the high pitched, “someone is ripping my arm off” screaming in the checkout aisle with various plastic keys, rattles and things that squeak
3. Brush my hair (as if such frivolous things happen at my leisure these days)
4. Soothe chapped lips, in a variety of flavors
5. Wipe up regurgitated breast milk, or pureed sweet potatoes, with a quickness
6. Remove lint, dog hair, crumbs and/or other small pieces of detritus from any fabric surface
7. Apply SPF 60 with speed, in hypoallergenic format
8. Binder clip something (who doesn’t need a couple binder clips hanging around)
9. Cover a nursing baby (in style, I might add) in order to avoid the gawks of passersby who would otherwise catch a glimpse of side boob
10. Sign a credit card slip in black, blue or purple (I like purple, ok?)
11. Sanitize ANYTHING… With a wipe or a gel
Do you know what I can’t do? I can’t change a diaper. Do you want to know why? Because I DON’T HAVE ANY LEFT IN THIS FRIGGIN BOTTOMLESS PIT OF A BAG! That cute and convenient little pocket made just for diapers… Empty. Nice little travel tube of diaper rash cream in there. No diapers.
So here I am in a public restroom. I sanitize the changing table in record speed. Roll out my fancy changing pad that matches my diaper bag, just in case the sanitizing wasn’t quite enough. Place my cute little thirteen pound bundle right up there for a routine diaper change. I am a pro at this. I am fabulous. Best Mom ever. I heard that explosion back at the table! I knew that one wasn’t one I could ignore. It was a deal-with-this-now-or-I-will-leak-out-the-back kind of scenario. Amateurs, they would have taken a few more bites of salad or whatever else they were trying to scarf down and then had to change an entire outfit! Not me. I knew the severity. I was cutting it off at the pass. I was winning! Or not. I reach into my cute, trendy diaper bag, and find nothing. Well, that’s a lie. I find a million things, less one diaper. Not a single one.
I have a cute little bundle, cooing and chewing her fingers, her naked butt cleaned up with perfection, totally oblivious to her mom’s catastrophic blunder. I am panicking. I am trying so hard not to show the horror of my circumstances all over my face. During her 2 a.m. feeding last night (this morning?) I read on a mommy message board I had Googled on my IPhone that babies can read panic on your face. I am terrified she will internalize that emotion. She will have an anxiety disorder. It will be all my fault. Don’t show her the panic. What do I do? Maybe there’s a diaper in the bottom of this bag. I’ll look again… Ok, nothing. Do I put the old diaper back on? No way! A little old lady is oohh and ahhing over her. She just exited a bathroom stall. Lady, wash your hands before you get within three feet of my kid. Actually, no, just don’t come near my kid. You’re scary, she’s naked from the waist down, and I don’t have a diaper. Dear God, save me. This is hell.
Ok, pull it together Angela. You’ve got this. The Mom of the Year Award doesn’t go to just anyone. I should have my own reality show. Moments like this… proof. I pull out a receiving blanket and a panty liner from my diaper bag, because apparently motherhood makes you MacGyver. Some folding, some tucking, some snaps of a onsie… Done! Diapered… Kind of…
I’m mentally preparing myself to make my walk of shame with my makeshift cloth diapered baby back to my seat. I’ll kick my husband under the table and let him know we probably have a VERY temporary Band-Aid on a situation here. As I zip closed my diaperless bag, she lets out the loudest, cutest, most heart melting baby belly laugh I have ever heard. The zipper. She thinks the zipper on the diaper bag sounds hilarious. I zip it again. Hysterics. Again. Huge chuckle. We spend the next minute and a half zipping and unzipping and zipping again, the both of us giggling. I realize we have been gone for a bit, and everyone is probably wondering where we have disappeared to. As I scoop her up, I catch a glimpse in the mirror of her new fancy diaper poking out of the back of her onsie. She’s smiling. So am I. Crisis averted.