My Kid Shit All Over The Restaurant, And How's Your Day Going?

by Deirdre Londergan
A mother changing her baby's diaper
skynesher / iStock

As a parent, I have learned we are all going to have days that humble us. We had that last week when our furnace broke and we decided to go out for dinner instead of cooking. Our 2 1/2-year-old is not quite ready for primetime when it comes to dinning out, so we went to a buffet-style restaurant. I will not say the name in fear they will sue, or worse someone will try to make eye contact with me.

When we arrived, my husband ordered and I found a table in the back corner. Everything was going well — until my daughter’s butt literally exploded. It was like a bomb sounded, everyone ducked, and diarrhea filled our lives and our booth.

My husband froze, his face in utter panic, and he just kept muttering, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” I’m not always a take-charge kind of gal, but I knew immediately I would be taking the lead in this literal shitshow. So I grabbed my daughter, rushed her at arm’s length to the restroom, stripped her down, performed an exorcism, and tried to get as much poop off of her as possible.

Meanwhile, I sized up the situation: I had no diapers, no wipes, and only a single pair of 12-18 month pants in the car. I figured this would suffice as her tiny butt could not possibly have any more poop in it, and we were very close to home.

“Clean the booth. Get the pants,” I commanded my husband.

With my daughter dressed in too-small pants, shirtless, and in a jacket, I knew the tough part was coming: leaving.

I opened the door ready to make the quickest getaway possible. My husband did not get this memo or had undergone a shame lobotomy because he’d packed up the leftovers and was frantically shoving salmon salad in his mouth. This is where our Midwest/Northeast differences appear: He doesn’t understand that once a crime has been committed: You leave, as fast as possible. You don’t finish your salmon salad just because salmon doesn’t keep well. So I whispered as harshly as I could, “We need to leave.”

He saw my face and scooped up the leftovers. I swear I could hear people whisper-chanting “Shame, shame, shame,” as we left.

So this was a D-A-Y, but that’s okay. Life will give you some diarrhea-filled lemons sometimes. In the end, though, know that this was just that: a day. Not our life. We are still lucky. We could fix the furnace, we could (eventually) laugh about our dinner shitshow, and our daughter will return to having solid bowel movements soon.