Poop colored badge of courage

On Saturday, I officially earned my motherhood stripes. And they were poop colored.

I decided to take advantage of my maternity leave and spend a week and a half down in Houston visiting family and giving them all the opportunity to meet E. It was wonderful—like a new mommy vacation. I had tons of help, everyone wanted to hold the baby all the time, and my mom was a saint and took night shifts so I could get some sleep. Not to mention she watched E so I could get a massage and a pedicure. Delightful.

On the way there, my mom was awesome enough to fly with me so that I didn’t have to attempt the whole flying with a baby thing by myself on his first plane trip. It was smooth sailing—no delays, great weather and a seasoned veteran by my side.

On the way back, I was by myself. I got to the airport with plenty of time, made it through security without any hassle, and the flight was on time. It was all lining up to be a relatively simple adventure. I found a seat near the window on the side of the plane where I could easily feed E without flashing too much boob to those around me AND the middle seat was open. Score.

Well, the middle seat was soon taken by a teenage boy. All I could think was, “wow, enjoy the show, buddy.” But he fell asleep in the first few minutes, and I couldn’t help but think I averted a seriously awkward moment for us both. Score again. This was going well.

And then that B face Mother Nature showed up (sorry MN, please forgive me for my unkind words and don’t take it out on me later, k? K.) As we got near Denver, the weather was looking mighty awful. We all were told to sit down, buckle up, and expect a bumpy ride. Lame, but no big deal, that’s just what it’s like to fly into Denver. Well, it must have seemed terrifying to poor E, because all of a sudden I heard what sounded like three shotgun blasts coming from his back end. Yup, he pooped his pants. And not just some tiny little diaper stain, but the kind that leaks out the sides, running all the way up his back, sitting in his britches like some kind of yellow nightmare. Of course I was feeding him at the time so all that lovely diaper lava came squishing out in between us, leaving a poop colored badge of courage all over the front of my shirt. The fasten seat belt sign glowed above my head, taunting E and my misfortune. There we sat in a giant puddle of seedy shit and there’s nothing we could do about it.

That’s when Mother Nature really decided to test my mental fortitude. The storm was so bad we circled, and circled, and circled… for 45 minutes doused in doody. Yes it was awful, but what came next was so much worse. The pilot spoke the words that would become one of the single most horrible experiences of my life thus far: “We’ve been rerouted to Colorado Springs until the storm clears.” What. The. F.

So, 20 more delightful minutes went by with our hot bodies all smooshed next to each other, poop in between. I choked back tears, steeling my mind and trying to turn myself into a mommy robot, repeating the words “this too shall pass” over and over again. But guess what? It didn’t pass. For another FOUR HOURS.

When we got to the Springs, we sat on the Tarmac awaiting news from Denver about the weather. But that news was only delivered every hour on the hour, so in between we waited. Thankfully, I had the opportunity to change E on a nice man’s plane seat. I told him it was a diaper nightmare. He told me don’t worry about it—he has kids too. That didn’t keep him from casually moving the seat belt while I anxiously worked so it didn’t get dipped in poop. Bless you, stranger.

After the plane seat diaper change, we waited some more, and god it was hot. It would have been hot without a 13 pound superheated sack of potatoes attached to my body at all times. A sack of potatoes that would smile, cry, and smile like some kind of adorable bipolar miniature human that was tired of being held. Which he was.

As people lined up in the aisle for the bathroom they would look at me with a combination of admiration and sadness in their eyes sometimes saying, “How old his he? 7 weeks? My goodness, you’re so brave.” I can say I didn’t feel brave. I felt like the biggest fool on planet Earth for attempting to fly by myself with a not even two month old. Brave? More like pure survival.

But that’s when my faith in humanity was restored. As I stood there, tears welling up in my eyes, a woman got my attention. “Do you want me to hold him so you can go to the restroom? I have kids too and I know what you’re going through.” The bond of motherhood is a strong one, friends. Someday I will do the same for some terrified first time mother who is barely holding on. This woman might have in that moment saved my life. She held E for 15 minutes, all squirmy and irritated, while I waited in the longest bathroom line in the world. It was magic. I don’t know her name, but her face and kindness will stay in my mind and heart forever. Thank you, stranger.

Well, legally they could only hold us on the plane for 3 hours. So at 5:30 p.m., we deplaned in Colorado Springs. I rushed off, changed E, and let him stretch out on some dirty ass bench with another baby. I prayed it wasn’t covered in Ebola, but he was so happy for freedom that I put my germ fears aside and let him throw a tiny party with his arms and legs, listening to everyone that walked by say, “awww, he’s taking this so well!” Better than mommy… better than mommy.

At 6 p.m., we got word from Denver that the storm had cleared and we could head home. Which meant another round of boarding the plane and getting everyone situated, seat belts buckled, etc. etc. UGH. But we got on again with hopes of finally flying home, and it was good.

However, the plane flight from hell had another curve ball to throw. Hooray! I hadn’t chewed off all my nails and pulled out my eyebrows completely yet! LET’S DO THIS THING. A few people had decided to bail. Just not get back on the plane. Which I guess means paperwork. The kind where the flight attendants have to write down the name of every single person on the plane, one by one, spelling each correctly. I was ready to kill.

Finally, after 20 or 30 minutes of paperwork, we took off. My heart was starting to become happy again. Sure, I still had to get off the plane, get my bag, ride the shuttle to The Spot and drive home—but I was GOING home.

Unfortunately, the timing was all off now. When we first started our journey, I was hoping that this thing E has been doing lately that we call the Witching Hour would happen at home. Every night starting at around 8 or 9 p.m. and lasting until about 10 or 11 p.m., he’s fidgety. Not crying, not necessarily angry, just awake and fidgeting. But then, out of nowhere, he just stops—and passes out for at least 4 hours, sometimes more. It’s horrible, then amazing. Well, Witching Hour happened in an airport and on a shuttle bus, all while he was strapped to my body in a baby carrier. But since we spent 6 hours on a plane, this time he wasn’t just fidgety, he was PISSED. He screamed bloody murder until we got home.

But after I hauled him and all our stuff in the house, changed his dirty diaper and sweaty onesie, fed him and laid him in bed next to me, he smiled and cooed for about 10 minutes and then drifted off to sleep for 4 and a half hours. Victory. We made it.

Right then I knew I could do anything. I had earned my motherhood stripes all at once in one long, painful, miserable experience. I had a poop colored badge of courage, and I was proud.