Smelly tales.

Yesterday, after a great morning at home, I decided Pierce was ready to go to the store without a diaper. It was his first outing, so we packed lots of extra clothes and headed out, hoping for the best.

He did great. He used the bathrooms in Walmart and Dillons, keeping his pants dry like a pro.

Then we got to the eye doctor’s. He’d gone just minutes before at Dillon’s, so I was feeling pretty confident.

Mistake. The smell that suddenly permeated the waiting area meant only one thing. Turns out, Pierce’s new boxers are not all-containing. The rug was littered with the source of that smell.

Oh. My.

I sent Liberty to the van for the diaper bag, I begged for paper towels from the receptionist, and looked for an outside trash (There wasn’t one.) Declining the receptionists offer to just empty the garbage once I’d used it, I stuffed the paper towels in the wet bag and watch my pride go in there with them.

I couldn’t believe that had just happened. While the receptionist is the doctor’s daughter and the oldest of eight and had experienced similar humiliation (or witnessed it in her own family at the very least) and couldn’t have been any nicer, it was one of the most embarrassing motherhood moments to date. Next week, when we visit the same doctor for two more appointments, I’m thinking a diaper is in order.

My pride can’t take it.

Pierce isn’t going to live this down. It’ll be told and retold, I’m afraid. All five of his older siblings watched their frazzled mother cleaning up poop off the carpet at the eye doctor’s, all the while praying no one walked in the doors until it was all contained. It’ll go down in infamy.