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The Day My Son Got Crap in a Shopping Cart by Beth at Manic Mumbling

You know those wipes they offer near the shopping carts? Yeah, you should really use those.

So, we all know that kids must have great immune systems because they put just about everything in their mouths, right? What about the rest of us?
I was at the grocery store once with Jack, who must have been three years old, because he was big enough to be uncomfortable sitting in the shopping basket kiddie seat, but not so big he could see over the checkout counter.
On this excursion, I had pulled his hands away from the candy at the point-of-purchase display near the counter for the umpteenth time, and was paying for my groceries when I noticed people from the next aisle – the next few aisles, actually – looking my way and grimacing.
“Mom, this feels funny,” I heard Jack say.
I turned to see him traveling back and forth along the handrail that separated aisles, sliding his tongue along its length.
I am so glad to be past that mouthy stage. I really am. I am also glad to be past the stage when the same kid would announce to everyone in the restaurant that the guy who left the restroom just before him and my husband did NOT WASH HIS HANDS. Gross. Dad, WHY did that GUY not WASH his HANDS?
Yeah, and dude, why were you licking the handrail in the grocery store? Seriously.
There is nothing like living with little petri dish children to make you realize that we are much further away from a global plague than one might think, otherwise we’d be gonners by now.
It was the younger one who caused the most serious public shiver moment when he was a baby.
We were at Target, shopping for God knows what would cause us to navigate our way through traffic on what I’m sure was a Sunday afternoon. We were closing in on the checkout stand when Colin had what had to have been the worst blow-out I’d ever seen.
His diaper was completely failing to contain the carnage happening south of the border. So were his onesy, his footie pants, overshirt or coat. Brownish, smelly goo was oozing over the whole baby seat and front end of the cart just as I was entering the checkout stand.
Fortunately, I had reinforcements. I sent Mike through to pay for our goods and watch the elder of the two hooligans, while Mister Explosion and I beat a hasty retreat to the restroom.
I couldn’t pull him from the quagmire he’d created and leave the cart unattended in good conscience so I wheeled Colin and the whole cart into the restroom. One, big bubble of stink. Another woman was exiting a stall with a little girl, looked at us and sighed.
“Oh, I don’t miss those days,” she said.
Whatever, lady. Shush with your sympathy.
I pulled the baby from the cart, changed him and cleaned him up the best I could. Then I held the baby in the crook of one arm and tried to clean the cart.
Have you ever tried to clean a shopping cart with one hand using baby wipes? Shopping carts have intricate cricks and crevasses. Stuff doesn’t come off, it just gets smeared around and pressed into other nooks. Sweet Mother of God. It was bad. Anyone else touching this cart, anyone putting their precious baby in this cart, was going to be stricken with cholera or distemper or something that caused bleeding out the eyeballs, or whatever direct contact with feces causes.
I took the baby and the soiled cart back out to the customer service desk and waited in line.
A long line.
I waited through conversations about nonfunctional vacuums and the repercussions when one doesn’t have her receipt. Finally I got to the front of the line with the soiled cart and the baby held in the crook of an arm that felt like it was about to break off.
The guy looked at me.
“Um. My child has soiled this cart. It was pretty bad. I think you should take the thing outside and use a pressure hose on it before anyone else uses it. Either that or incinerate it. That would be good. Do you have any clerk who is also a budding arsonist interested in testing the ignition point of plastics on this cart?”
Sigh. “I need you to make sure this cart is taken out somewhere and sanitized, or else destroyed. My baby here had a major diaper blow out and I don’t want anyone touching this cart before it is cleaned.”
“What was that?”
God almighty.
“My child had a big SHIT in this CART.” I said. “It was huge and leaked and seeped into every crevasse and I want to make sure no one else touches this thing before it is sanitized,” I said. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“Uh,” he said.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I had just yelled about baby poop in front of a long line of people at the customer service counter at Target. I was sweating and flushed.
I turned and headed for the door.
An older woman leaned out and put her hand on my arm as I rushed past the group.
“Honey. Really. Thank you,” she said.

A blast from the past by Manic Mumblings
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Expectation Versus Reality: A Morning in the ADD Household by The Sadder But Wiser Girl blog

So you’d think everything would just fall into place.  Both kids are in school, I’m working part-time so I send them off, have plenty of time to exercise, plan meals, clean the house, AND work.  Right?
Riiiiiiiight.  If you believe that, I have a bridge in New York that I can sell you really cheap.

A Typical Morning:  The Expectation

The alarm goes off at 6 am.  I get up to do yoga with the sun in my shimmery, flattering yoga outfit.  At 7 am, I gently my rouse my children out of bed with snuggles and kisses.  They dress themselves in their out of this world adorable outfits that totally match.  We have a lovely breakfast of homemade sprouted 7 grain waffles with organic maple syrup and freshly squeezed orange juice.  Afterwards, I