All figured out

Just when I think I've got this whole parenting two babies thing down, something ridiculous happens.

Monday I thought it reasonable to make a trip to the YMCA for my Body Design class - not the Turbo Kick . . . it's for the birds - and Body Design went smoothly (minus the crippling, burning sensation in my butt because of an impossible band exercise). Had a lovely afternoon with Vera and some good down time while both of the kids slept. Then, I thought I would venture to the grocery store with both of them, four WIC checks to cash and a multitude of coupons. All a good thing, except that it means more to put in a cart that is already full of children. To alleviate the loaded cart, I put Vera in her Sleepy Wrap - this long strip of fabric that secures her to me and allows her to face out.

Poor decision number one: Allow son to take "Digger" into the store.
Poor decision number two: Allow ambition and confidence to supersede rationale

By the time we made it to the milk, I could barely steer the cart it was so heavy. By the time we made it to the milk, I had retrieved the Digger more than once. It's a really cool toy. Don't worry, I don't slave to my son and pick it up and then foolishly give it back to him again and again. However, I did tire of his yelling "DIGGER!" when I had taken it away. By the time we made it to the milk, I was beginning to wonder how on earth I would get all of this, kids included, into my car.

It's not very easy to unload your grocery cart when you have a child strapped to the front of you. It's also not very easy when your son can reach things in the cart (because it was so insanely full) and is "helping" unload. It's also not easy, all other factors aside, when you have WIC checks and all your WIC items are under the massive pile and you have to organize it carefully and can't have help unloading because you're the only one who knows how things need to be organized. I'm not complaining. Thank you gov't for temporary assistance and thank you tax payers. So . . . yes, I'm a high maintenance shopper, but I saved as much as I spent and I'm proud of that.

By the way, at this point, I had given Warrick back his Digger. At one point another child came to me and asked if it was his. Apparently he had thrown it back into the aisles of food from the check out lane.

Pause: A significant rumble in Vera's pants

I check for the damage, pulling her away from me. Nothing. Praise Jesus.

Continue to unload. Warrick is now legitimately helping unload things onto the conveyor belt, including his Digger. I see it last, sigh, under the pile of 88 cent frozen veggies bags.

Pause: More rumbling. More checking. More nothing. More praising Jesus.

Another interesting factor, "Prince" is my check out guy. He's great, but he's usually stocking bread and he usually says, "Have a blessed day." with his flashy silver teeth. I asked him why once, and he indicated that Someone else should get the credit for the good things that happen to you during your day. I agreed. Today, after our complicated and about to be disgusting passage through the check out, I did not get a "have a blessed day." I had, in fact, obviously overwhelmed the guy. I still consider myself blessed.

(Another interesting factor. My receipt said, "Your cashier today was Bobby." )

Pause: More rumbling. still in the clear.

Continue to unload and organize. Yes, plastic is fine for the rest. The tails of my wrap brush my legs. Vera must have spit up a bit . . . . no . . . . ??. Again, more wetness. But no evidence of spit up. And then I see it.

You learn quickly as a new parent that when babies poop, it has impressive velocity behind it. Enough to spray you mid diaper change, enough to erupt up their backs when the exit is blocked by their own weight while in a car seat. In this particular situation, the exit was blocked, AND the back and front were blocked too. Vera pooped and pooped and pooped. All those rumbles had substance to them, and it all poured out the sides onto my leg, but mostly onto the floor.

I did not purchase butternut squash soup on Monday, but you would have thought that I did and then spilled it on the floor. Gross. Gross. Gross. I was already having trouble enough staying on top of the drama. Now I'm cleaning their floors with Digger thrower beginning his melt down and Poopster still strapped and still spilling her waste. I tuck the tails of the wrap around her squishy thighs to contain it, and continue to mop up the mess. Gross.

Usually I do not ask for help to my car, but today I did.

Here is what I am thankful for. My mom bought me a really cool yellow shirt from Old Navy this past weekend. It escaped completely unscathed. We saved lots of money. I have two cool kids. Angel was willing to help me to my car.

Here is what I am kicking myself for: Allowing my son to take his really cool toy to the grocery store when there is plenty, I repeat, plenty of other stimulation to be had.

As I was about to leave, I realize that the Digger is nowhere to be found.

"Did you see a small yellow Digger toy without a SKU go through?"

"I don't know."

"You would know . . . it wouldn't have beeped and it's really cool, the shovels are magnetic and it has big eyes on it. You didn't see it?"

"I don't know. I probably pushed it through and it's in one of the bags."

To bagger: "Did you pack a Digger?"

"What?"

"A little yellow Digger toy, two shovels, really cool?"

"I don't remember."

"Are you sure?"

" I don't know."

Alas, the Digger is gone. Probably flew through the air unnoticed and landed in the gum or slid under the magazine rack. I am genuinely sad about it. I kind of liked playing with the digger too. It even accidentally picked up one of Warrick's spoons once.

So, here is me asking for advice about two things:

1. How do you clothe/diaper/wear your child in a way that will prevent eruptions?

2. Is it customary these days to tip your bagger when they help you unload your groceries into your car?