Well I have never thought of them again. I haven’t. But apparently there are three little incidents that have never left my husband’s never-forgetting-all knowing-elephant-brain. I mean, these little things all happened so many years ago, when the hooligans were young. Why is he hanging on to them like some old piece of underwear?
I don’t like to dwell on the past, but he brought them all up yesterday. Like they had just occurred. For no reason. Just threw it all out there in a “remember when you did this to me” type of way.
He grabbed these memories right out of the sky, as if a train of thoughts were passing by and he just randomly picked the caboose.
So obviously, this painful, trilogy of horrors, is kept close to his heart, where he anxiously anticipates his fourth blow; where he will add it to his jar of spousal and paternal woes.
I think he’s waiting…waiting for the remorse he wanted me to show or feel for these nonsensical matters, but knowing all well that I am the person who laughs when someone falls. The harder the fall, the harder I laugh.
I know that sounds terrible but please don’t categorize me as unsympathetic; I am the one who will be there first to scoop you off the ground; but I will be laughing. Don’t judge me.
So this all started back when we had our first child. The baby was probably eight months old at the time.
The Wild Boar and I were at the mall. The baby in the stroller.
We went into Tiffany’s and proceeded to look around. You know just trolling the jewelry case on a Sunday afternoon.
My son was a loud baby. You know how they are, just calling out sounds…BA-DA-MA-LA…but loudly. Very loudly.
I wanted to try on some necklaces so I pulled out some Goldfish crackers and gave them to him to quiet him down. Of course he ate them, stuffing his little face very quickly and started in on his loud sounds again.
This was not the store for loud sounding kids. So I turned around and handed him my car keys to play with, something the Wild Boar always told me not to do. Why? He says they’re dirty. But desperation was key here.
Anyway, I have a couple bracelets and a few necklaces on and I’m drooling over each and every one of them. When my darling baby gags himself with the car keys and proceeds to explode orange vomit everywhere. In Tiffany’s! Gasp!
The Wild Boar tips the stroller backward on its two rear wheels so that the vomit stops overflowing onto the carpet and begins pooling in my son’s lap. My husband starts wheeling him out of the store immediately because by the looks on the faces of the people at Tiffany’s, I don’t think they had ever seen pools of orange colored vomit before.
Without even thinking about it, I chase after them, forgetting I have all this jewelry on. The Tiffany armed guards grab me at the door as I start to walk out of the store; as if we had planned this whole jewelry heist.
I was just trying to figure out what to do about all the barf that had now covered my baby and Tiffany’s floors. But the Tiffany’s thugs are holding me back to keep me in the store and the husband is standing in the mall with the screaming baby in the pool of orange, thick, Goldfishy, barf. And yes, everyone is looking at us.
I have to go back and remove the jewels (and maybe try on some more, sorry honey you never knew that part) while he has to walk down to Nordstrom, go to the men’s restroom and clean up milky-Goldfish-cracker vomit from a baby who is very fat with lots of crevices and rolls that liquid was pouring into.
When I went back into the store it was like the barf police came out of the walls and had the carpet shampooed, leaving the place spotless. It was like…amazing….how did they make it happen?
When the Wild Boar came back I had a necklace all picked out. Ummm, I’m not sure why he didn’t let me get it.
We decided to take a little trip to Las Vegas. The same child as mentioned above was still a baby, now about 10 months old. As I said before he was a very, very chubby baby. He had fat rolls on his fat rolls. He did not walk or crawl. So we happily pushed him around in his stroller in the city of lights.
Even though we couldn’t gamble or go to nice, intimate restaurants there was one thing this ji-mungo child loved to do. Eat. Our baby was the happiest cherub at every buffet in town.
But then it hit. The dreaded baby-explosive-diarrhea. The kind of diarrhea that proliferates in unimaginable quantities out of the diaper; up the back, making it’s way to his neck. I call it Poop-Cream. The fumes were enough to raise the dead. In fact, I think it smelled like the dead.
The diffusion of rotting flesh odor was exiting the stroller and knocking people down ten feet away. There was no way to hide it as we walked in and out of these luxury hotels. We happened to be in The Mirage when one of the oozing diarrhea explosions hit. Our hotel was several blocks away on The Strip; too far to make it back.
Somehow I was able to change the baby’s diaper without incident using a whole box of baby wipes. But now I was left with this pile of poopy clothes. These were not just poopy-smears but cupfuls of drippy, poop-cream. It was so bad, and the stench was ghastly.
I convinced the husband that he should go into The Mirage’s, very, very she-she-la-la, men’s restroom to wash out the poop-cream from the clothes. Somehow he agreed. I mean come on, in his line of work (OB/GYN) people pooped on him all the time. This would be nothing.
So he goes into the very nice, very busy, restroom, which is right off the casino.
The husband tosses the clothes in the water and has a sink full of brown poopy water. I’m sure he was scrubbing away like he had a washboard because if you knew him, you would know he is very thorough.
Lots of people saw I’m sure. But when he came out and joined us, a group of young guys walked by and one said and pointed, “Hey, there’s that guy I told you about who shit himself in the bathroom and was trying to wash out his clothes”.
They all turned to look at us, laugh and walk away.
I laughed so hard, I cried. The husband was not as amused by this vision of himself.
We didn’t leave our hotel that much after that. What a party POO-per.
Again it’s all my fault.
So anyway, when our youngest hooligan was about six months old we were at the mall. Yes, again!
We were happily shopping away at Neiman Marcus, minding our own business, looking at this, looking at that. I mean, who’s not happy at Neiman Marcus?
The Wild Boar was going to try on some clothes and the baby was fussing. He needed a bottle. Badly.
So while the Wild Boar went into the dressing room, I gave the baby a bottle.
We sat relaxing in the beautiful leather loungers that Neiman’s has there for it’s customers. The baby drank his usual 4 ounces of milk and when he finished totally freaked out; screaming and wailing these blood curdling screams.
Everyone was looking at me like I was pinching this baby or something. I didn’t know what to do. So in all my geniusness I whipped out another bottle. (Just know that he had never, ever drank two bottles at once. I’m sure his stomach was way too small. Okay, now I know his stomach was too small.)
For god sakes, I was at Neiman’s and everyone was looking at me like, “do something lady; you’re ruining the ambiance of our shopping experience! And didn’t you bring your nanny to handle problems like this?” (This was typical think-smack talk in Orange County where we used to live.)
But the baby took the bottle and started sucking it down. I felt like a good mother. I knew what my child needed and I provided for him.
He happily sucked away and the husband returned from the dressing room with what he wanted to purchase.
The baby had finished his bottle and I told the husband I would pay for the clothes if he would burp the baby.
What I didn’t tell him was that the baby had just eaten more than he had EVER eaten in one sitting, in his whole entire life.
As I returned with the purchases, the baby let out a burp that was something comparative to what Jabba the Hut would emit from the depths of his bowels. And along with that noise came projectile vomiting right into the Wild Boar’s lap and on his shirt, the lounger and his glasses.
I had never seen anything like it.
If you have ever been the victim of baby-milk-barf then you know once it’s been in the stomach it’s returns all curdled and clumpy and oh yes, so stinky.
He had pools and pools of barf in his crotch. It was soooo nasty.
Of course, I was laughing so hard I could barely stand up.
There was nothing we could do. The bathroom was on the 1st floor, we were not.
So I did what any good wife and mother would do. I grabbed the baby, smushed the barf off him, grabbed my other hooligan and we RAN. Ran away from the husband towards the exit and the parking garage so that no one would know we were together.
He was covered in sludge and it was dripping everywhere. He looked like he had a very bad, unexplainable accident in the worst possible way and didn’t have a barfy baby with him to explain it away.
He left a trail of white, goopy-sludge as he walked and was shimmying like an elderly person so that the bulk of the sludge would not drip down and just remain between his legs.
Everyone who passed him turned around. And how did I know this? I was hiding behind the clothes racks with the kids, watching as he walked along. But then it happened…something dreadful. He slipped in his own trail of muck…and fell.
I laughed so hard I could not get up as I was holding the baby. People were staring. I didn’t rescue him this time because I would have peeped my pants.
The people who helped him up just stared at the barf curdles in his crotch in disbelief because they had no idea what it was.
We finally met at the car. He had to take off his pants and drive home in his underwear.
He didn’t talk to me on that drive home and for a couple weeks after that.
I’m so, so sorry honey for all these things. It was all so long ago, but obviously still so fresh in your mind. I am truly, truly pained by your hurt.