Oh, by the way. . .I just learned it was "Delurking Week." Please drop me a line just to say "hi." I don't bite, except on Mondays, so you're safe.

Much More than a Mom's post on her blog inspired me to share this. This story was published in Sasee magazine in February 2006, and later on JustforMom.com

Honey, Where’s the Instruction Booklet on this Kid?
by Debbie Roppolo ©2006

When I was a young adult, I thought I had the world by the coattails; there was no task too great, no obstacle I couldn’t overcome. I was also a self-proclaimed authority on childbirth. I had seen horses and cows give birth, and it all seemed very simple.

Reality hit when I became pregnant. Some women radiate beauty when they are expecting; I did not. Countless trips to the bathroom—because of morning sickness—left me with the feeling that I had no toenails remaining. The toilet and I began to know each other on a first name basis.

During a journey to the bathroom during my seventh month of pregnancy, my well-meaning husband, John, intercepted me in the hall. "You’re beautiful, Babe."

I stared stupidly at him through blood-shot eyes. Beautiful? Ha! I thought, glancing in the hallway mirror. My eyes looked like poached eggs, and my bloating midsection convinced me that I was beginning to look like a cow. Okay, either John has become blind, gone insane, or he is the worst liar I’ve ever known, I thought, shuffling down the hall to the bathroom.

After giving birth to my son, I thought parenthood would be a breeze. During my stay in the hospital, pediatric nurses took care my son; I was pampered and treated like a queen. Reality once again reared its ugly head the day we were to leave the hospital.

A smiling nurse brought our precious little bundle into the room as we were packing. "I’m really sorry madam, but I didn’t get a chance to change your son. You might want to change his diaper before you leave."

Change his what? Beads of perspiration formed on my forehead and my heart pounded frantically. I had no clue how to change a diaper. "John, I don’t know how to change a diaper."

"You mean you’ve NEVER changed a diaper?" John asked in disbelief.

"No." I whispered. I gazed at the pale green linoleum tiles on the floor and wished I could melt into its cracks. John held me in his arms while I wept, then patiently "walked" me through the process of changing a diaper.

That was the biggest crisis I experienced until Jonathan reached six months of age; then one day it was obvious that all was not well with Jonathan. My usually good-natured son was crabby and lethargic. John was at work, so I sought the advice of my mama. Between sobs, I described Jonathan’s symptoms to her over the phone.

"Oh honey, he’ll be okay. It sounds like he’s a little constipated."

Always on the verge of being a basket case, I began crying in relief. "Then he’ll be okay? What can I do to help him?" I crossed my fingers and hoped Mama did not suggest a soapy enema.

"Just give him a little prune juice in his bottle."

"That’s all? He…he’ll be fine then?"

"Yes honey. The prune juice is all he needs. That and a little time," she chuckled. Relieved, I slumped into a kitchen chair after I got off the phone with Mama. She was right, she was always right. Jonathan would be fine after he drank the prune juice. Mama forgot, however, to tell me to dilute the prune juice.

I gave my little fuss-box eight ounces of straight prune juice in his bottle, and checked his diaper every few minutes for the results. I thought Mama said this would work, I fumed. Oh well. He loves the stuff, so I’ll give him another bottle full. What could eight more ounces of prune juice hurt?

That same night, John took Jonathan and me out to supper at our favorite Mexican restaurant. On the way to the restaurant, I heard the baby grunting in his car seat. I glanced back at him and saw a tiny face, red with exertion. Hmm. Guess the prune juice worked after all, I thought.

Every female, at least once in her life, has the dream of everyone staring at her when she enters a room. This happened when we entered the restaurant; almost every head turned to look at me as we made our way to a table. I had dressed attractively; I assumed everyone was admiring my beauty.

I walked past a nearby table; a man seated there stared at me with a look of horror and revulsion in his eyes. His wife, calmly eating her food, patted his arm and said "Don’t worry about it dear. She probably doesn’t realize it yet."

Realize what? Horrified, I realized what everyone was staring at. There was a thick layer of disgusting smelling, salsa verde colored goop covering my arm and the front of my shirt. In disbelief, I saw a trail of goop on Jonathan’s back that went from his diaper to the top of his neck. It was Jonathan’s bowel movement.

John, who is well known and liked in our town, was making the rounds of the restaurant, shaking hands with people that he knew. When he arrived at our table, I leaned over and whispered, "John, we have to leave. We have to leave now!" I turned our son around and showed John the mess.

A tense smile plastered on his face, John hissed through clenched teeth, "Let’s get out of here!"

We leapt from the table and headed towards the door. My stomach churning, I held Jonathan at arm’s length as we raced through the restaurant. Everyone who did not see our entrance had the pleasure of seeing Jonathan’s back as we made our hasty retreat.

At the door, we bumped into a young couple that gazed dumbstruck at our son. Always the calm one under pressure, John flashed the couple a winning smile, and said," What ever you do, do not eat the chicken enchiladas!" With that, we fled out the door and into the night.