Terror for Two, Please

I am officially now the mother of two beautifully perfect tiny terrorists. I could tell you how chaotic my life has become, how overwhelmed I often feel at the suffocating weight of responsibility that accompanies holding the lives of two little people in my sometimes seemingly incapable hands. I could also tell you how much more lovely life is with the addition of another adorable little squish I get to call my very own. And maybe I will, eventually. But for now, I'd rather regale you with a story so filled with poop you might even say I'm full of shit.

It began the day all the help went home. No more family surrounded me, making sure the laundry was folded and I was fed, the children were alive and the baby smothered in adoration. It was just me and the girls. Alone. Totally alone.

I looked at their little faces, staring at me expectantly. I looked around for an adult in the room when I realized with a jolt that the only grown up was me. I sighed with a slight hint of desperation, but, with an air of bravado as if I knew just what I was doing, I decided to pack up the kids and head to the park. No big deal, right? Easy peasy.

Sixteen thousand hours later, the diaper bag was packed, the kids were dressed, I had pants on which I deemed to be good enough, and off we went. We hadn't even made it a mile from the house when I heard the oldest tiny terrorist, yell "EWWW! MAMA, LOOK!"

Well, considering that I was driving the world's biggest car in order to fit my family, taking a peek at what was transpiring in the backseat was not necessarily an option. So, I gritted my teeth, gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead at the open road, focused solely on the destination. I would find out soon enough what type of terror awaited me in the baby's car seat.

Upon arrival, I scurried to the back of the car to investigate. There sat my cute little baby, looking at me blankly, covered in ooey gooey spit up. Yuck. Not to worry, though! Being a seasoned mom who has survived many a bio hazard terror attack, I had a change of clothes in the diaper bag. I got the baby dressed, grabbed the toddler and off we trudged to the park.

About halfway through our park experience, the baby got a little fussy. And then she got a lot fussier. Guessing that she was probably starving considering that she had just thrown up the majority of my liquid gold, I decided to go ahead and nurse her. Now, I am not at all comfortable nursing in public. With my first baby terrorist, I would retreat to a back bedroom or take the extra time to pump in order to ensure I had a bottle. This time around, I promised to tackle my fear. And what better time than the present to whip out the old hooter hider and nurse my sweet baby as my toddler played with reckless abandon on the slide.

Things began to unravel almost immediately. Just as my boob met the fresh air, the toddler ran over to the picnic table on which I was perched and demanded a snack. Okay, no problem. I reached into the diaper bag to retrieve the snacks when my dexterity failed me. I knocked over the bag, spilling all of the precious diaper bag contents onto the concrete. As I contemplated how to continue nursing while gathering all of my spilled cargo, a slight breeze rushed through the trees. How nice, I thought...until that lovely breeze lifted my nursing wrap and exposed all I had hoped to hide beneath it. And just as I thought things couldn't get any worse, I heard the unmistakable rumble of my baby's tummy get louder and louder until...

Oh shit. Literally. Everywhere. I had used my spare outfit on the great spit up caper, and now I was shit on and shit out of luck. Well, it's time to go, I mused. I yelled over to the toddler as I gathered up my things in an attempt to leave the park with my dignity in tact and my head held high. And just as I thought that perhaps I was going to be able to do that, I heard my toddler holler from high atop the tallest slide on the playground...

"MAMA! I POOPED!"

And that was how I officially became the mother of two.