Despite this being an age of cellular phones, text messaging, email, instant messaging, and (gasp!) video conferencing, some of my clients still prefer updates via the old face-to-face lunch. Which is fine with me (I'll never pass up a free lunch) as long as the restaurant is kid-friendly (noisy).
After pawning Zoey off on her Granny, Zed and I met a client (mine, not Zed's) for lunch on Friday. I arrived at the diner a few minutes early so I could feed Zed and hopefully get him to fall asleep before my client came.
Didn't work.
My client, John, showed up and we were able to talk shop for about five minutes before all hell broke loose. Zed was in his carrier (Yes, he's too big for it. No, I don't use it in the car. Yes, I have a regular car seat for him. Look, he's too big for the carrier and not old enough to sit in a high chair. What am I supposed to do? Any more questions? Good.) when he started screaming. I got him out, bounced him on my knee, stuck his pacifier in his mouth, and tried to talk to John.
Didn't work.
I felt his diaper. Of course, he was wet. So I excused myself and took him to the restroom.
Before I continue, I must inform you of another one of my many neuroses: I have a hang-up with public restrooms. And, unfortunately, I project that hang-up onto Zed, as I hate changing his diaper in public. I don't know what my problem is. I don't know if somewhere inside I think I'm secretly being filmed for an upcoming episode of America's Funniest Diaper Changes (don't laugh, they're really running low on ideas for new reality shows) or if there's a secret panel of judges watching me behind a two-way mirror, but for some unknown reason I freak the hell out. I need medication.
So I went into the bathroom and thankfully there was one of those baby-changing stations in the handicapped stall. I pulled the station down and realized that I didn't have his mat to lay him on. So I went to get paper towels and, of course, the restaurant only had those automatic hand dryers, so I had to resort to toilet paper. After throwing the first few sheets in the toilet (because God only knows who had touched them), I carefully began constructing rows of my toilet paper defense system on the changing station. Then, just to be on the safe side, I put another level of rows on top of the ones I had already placed on the changing station. Then I put him on the toilet paper defense system, undressed him, and opened his diaper.
And wouldn't you know the little bugger had a bigger surprise waiting for me? Since Zed has only recently started eating peas, carrots, green beans, and the like, I had forgotten baby poop's chameleon-like ways. Opening a diaper is like opening a bag of Skittles. Only not as tasty.
So I put the wipe container on the station with him and began cleaning up his mess. Of course, he kicked the container onto the floor. I picked the container up, wiped it off with another wipe, put it back on the changing station, and proceeded with cleaning up Zed's mess when he kicked the wipe container onto the floor again. This time, after wiping it clean with yet another wipe, I held it in my hand.
So there I was: the diaper bag was draped over my shoulder because it couldn't touch the restroom floor, the wipe container was in the same hand I was holding his legs up with, and I'm wiping him with my other hand while trying to ignore the manic thoughts of "Christ, I hope no one's been watching me." and "I've been in here forever. John will be in here any minute wondering if everything's ok." racing through my head.
Finally, I finished cleaning him up. I put on his new diaper, dressed him, threw the toilet paper defense system in the toilet, and went back out to the diner to continue my lunch/meeting.
Of course, he cried for the entire meal, so I had to scarf down my sandwich as quickly as possible, take notes, and try to pacify him at the same time. Not much was accomplished.
So, if for some reason you would like to use my services one day (which is highly doubtful after reading this and some of my other posts; you'd probably be too afraid I'd flake out on you before the project was done), make sure I leave the kids at home.
Next Time, Just Shoot Me An Email (Or Just Shoot Me)
