Part 1 of The Murphy’s Law of Vacations: A Special Addition of “What the frak?” Friday

Friday’s “What the frak…?” moment (WTFM) is brought to you by………..

The Murphy’s Law of Vacations: if something can go wrong, it will go wrong.  Horribly wrong.

Was this an awesome week of vacation?

Yes.

Did everything go swimmingly well and without so much as a hiccup?

Hell. No.

It called for a Special Three Part Vacation Addition of “What the Frak?”

And yes, I realize it is no longer Friday. I started writing this on Friday. You’ll have to wait for Part 3 to hear about why no post occurred on its usual day.

Without further ado, here is Part 1 of this vacation’s lowlights and “what the frak?” moments.

Disclaimer: Part One is not for the faint of heart, those that wish to remain in blissful ignorance about what can occur when a diaper fails, or those that feel any sentence that contains the words “excrement,” “crap,” “potty,” “poop,” or any other synonym of these should never be written.  Much less read.

Part 1 of the Special Three Part Vacation Addition of “What the frak?”

The Airplane Poopapalooza–  It was something I prayed would never happen when The Tackler was younger. The Airplane Gods listened. However, when we flew out to Colorado last Sunday, they were still nursing hangovers and too tired to help.

The kicker was, it was potentially avoidable. My daughter was in my lap. I smelled it. I (unfortunately) could almost taste it, so potent was the production.

But our airplane only had one changing station (but two bathrooms) and all of the babies on board wanted a piece of the action.

We had to wait.

And wait.

Then a wet sensation crept into my hand.

And I knew.

I knew I was in trouble.

I prepared the arsenal while I waited: two plastic bags, one for the diaper, one for her now dirty clothes.

Then I waited.

And waited.

People stared at us as the stench invaded the area around our seats, where I stood in vain attempt to keep Lil Diva happy.

And finally, it was our turn.

It was worse than I’d imagined.

Whoever approved the changing station setup for airplanes needs to be trapped on an airplane with a child of every age and size that is not potty trained and be forced to change diapers in that speck of a bathroom on a changing table that might fit a newborn.

Lil Diva is only 16 months old, and ranks at the 50% mark for height.

Her butt barely fit onto the table. How could you possibly change a two year old? Or worse, a child the size of the Tackler who was over age three before potty trained?

There is no way it would remotely be possible.

As it was, my petite Diva was angled in order to squeeze in.

My elbows banged the walls as I attempted to set up.

I placed one plastic bag on top of the toilet – under the changing table, and one in the sink. Her clean change of clothes clamped between my legs.

No room remained to lay the box of wipes except in the Danger Zone.

The second I laid her onto the table, whatever hadn’t run down her leg, squished up the back.

As I carefully extracted a protesting Diva from her clothing, the pilot turned on the seat belt sign.

Turbulence. Lots of turbulence.

Going back to my seat at this point was not an option.

I tried in vain to prevent the toxic mess from spreading as I was forced to use the tiny mirror to even see the Diaper Disaster Zone thanks to the angle of her body.

Mass quantities of tissue provided by the bathroom and a plethora of wipes were required to clean up the foulness that had spread.

Ten to fifteen minutes passed of me trying to keep my balance as the plane shook – my shoulders occasionally crashing into the walls, while Lil Diva attempted every means of escape.  My hands went into Mommy Octopus Mode as they switched between holding her legs out of the way and preventing them from stomping into the soupy mess while wiping down over half of her body where it had already spread.

I wish this was an exaggeration.

The kids have a sweet moment sharing a seat - before Lil Diva's diaper explosion.

Fastening her clean diaper onto her was a dance in near futility as she rolled and twisted, wanting out of the smaller-than-broom-closet-space.

Finally, we emerged victorious.

Except for the stench the wipes failed to erase from her skin.

I had to drop her off with Daddy as I returned to the bathroom to wash my hands, an impossibility with her dirty clothes and feet extending into the sink with her in there.

As I scrubbed them furiously, I glared at the changing table and found myself thinking…. “What the frak??!?!”

Stay tuned for parts 2 and 3…..

Did you have a “what the frak?” moment this week?