Round 7, Day 5
Yesterday afternoon I packed up Offspring (O) and we headed to the local shopping mall to get a few essentials. Okay... it was for an electric Dory toothbrush in the hopes of bribing a better oral hygiene regimen out of O. As soon as I pulled into the car park I knew I was in trouble. On the drive over I'd started feeling hot and cold and just generally a little weird. I put it down to the wine with lunch and made a mental note to maybe stop early for the rest of the cycle. Then, I was suddenly on the verge of shitting myself. "Oh right," I thought, "I remember this now. Hormones."
"Okay, baby," I call into the back seat, "Mummy needs your help. I'm not feeling very well so we need to get into the shops really quickly, okay?"
"Okay, mummy." O has no idea what I mean but is always so accommodating. In theory.
I pull into the Parents with Prams area which is full of cars that do not have baby seats in them - they should just rename the area from "Parents with Prams" to "Assholes with Attitude". So... I am forced to park some distance from the front door. I carefully get out of the drivers' seat (a firm buttcheek clench is the only thing maintaining my dignity), grab a shopping cart and pull Octopus Arms from the car seat.
"Dummy! B-bear! Barbara!" Offspring is demanding various items from around the car before we can leave.
"Quick, quick, darling, mummy is in a hurry!" I try not to bend as I gather in an odd sideways limbo. Into the cart and off we go. I know I'm walking funnily and I can only hope that people think I'm disabled. Why must they put toilets so far away? Sweet Frankincense, a hill inside the mall, how did I not remember this is here? Oh god oh god oh god, it's going to happen isn't it?!
It's school holidays and the mall is mobbed. Every child and slow-walker gets in my way. I'm half-expecting some men carrying a sheet of glass to step in front of me or a wheelbarrow full of watermelons to tip over at our feet. Things are getting more precarious with every step. My face is starting to flush. The toilet sign looms ahead like an oasis in the desert and I can feel my butt clench start to slip.
The disabled stall is open, thank god, and I scootch us in and lock the door. The poor baby is smooshed up to me in the seat of the cart, given the size of the stall, and pats my head as I shudder into the bowl.
"Yes, mummy's ok," I say as another wave of liquid fire shoots out of me. Oh gawd, I want to die.
I have a flashback to Round Two, well over five years ago, when I had OHSS and was extremely sick. It took me a long time to recover but after a while I thought I was in the clear. One of the side effects was very loud gas which was extremely inconvenient to me but DH found hilarious. Glad one of us was enjoying it.
"Hey, listen to this," I said one evening romantically to DH, as I pottered around in the kitchen in a cute summer frock. He was in the adjoining room watching TV. I lifted my leg to emphasise the resonance of the upcoming fart. SPLAT. I sharted so hard that it shot past my panties and splattered on the tile. DH looked over with a smile and gave me the thumbs up. My bottom half was hidden by the kitchen island so he had assumed it was just a regular ole chunky fart.
I panicked. "DON'T COME IN HERE!" I yelled and in response, of course, he stood up and grinned and started walking toward me. "Why?"
"STOP!!! Just go... get me an old towel or something, throw it to me, and walk away."
"Did you drop something?" Still smiling but he's stopped at least.
"I..." there was no getting around it, "I shat myself."
"NO! You didn't?!" he laughed. He still thought I was joking.
"It's on the ground. Just go get me the towel." His face dropped and I could see him filing this incident on the "Cons" side of the "Should I divorce her now?" checklist he undoubtedly keeps in his head.
I remember a time when I would hear comedians talking about shitting themselves and found it funny but really couldn't relate, like 'WHO SHITS THEMSELVES?! That never happens!'.
Those were the days.