Number 1 Was Number 2

--Not for the faint of stomach or delicate of manners. Seriously, please just stop here if that's you.

My enjoyment of parenting has not at all decreased my horror at the things it calls upon a person to do. Sometimes it's like being on a reality show (I know: how sad that I would see my life in terms of television, instead of vice versa) on which the host dreams up bizzare challenges and throws them at you, earnest, willing, trying-to-be-up-for-anything-mommy.

It all started yesterday afternoon, at the pediatrician's office, which as I've written about before, I love to visit for well-child checkups. As always, they were solicitous and kind and tolerated my relish in telling them about AC's new developments and miniature accomplishments. But she'd been having this low-grade fever that had spiked to almost 104, so the doctor wanted to check for a possible urinary tract infection.

Doctor: Of course we don't want to have to catheterize her to get a sample, but we do have this . . . bag . . . that she could . . . wear.

Me, tentatively: Um, she does use the potty . . .

Doctor, excitedly: Oh, that's much better! We'll do that.

Me: Well, she doesn't do it every time . . . [In truth, she does it maybe once or twice a day, but it's pretty erratic. She makes the potty sign regularly, but often doesn't want to stop playing to follow through, and we don't want to make it into a battle until we're ready to potty train her in earnest. Hence my distinct hesitation about my ego writing checks a 19-month-old body couldn't cash.]

Doctor, clearly having moved on in his relief and excitement: Oh, we'll get you some cups, and you can just bring it back in the morning!

And that is how I ended up locked in the bathroom for an hour this morning with Allison Clare, her feverish and VERY confused and unhappy about being stripped naked (but also bemused and pleased by being plied with more cups of juice than she has ever been permitted in her life 'til now), and me desperately trying to keep a sterile urine cup within inches of her while keeping her from grabbing at it and contaminating it. I basically chased her around the bathroom and tried to clean up and/or keep her from splashing in the three small puddles that I didn't catch before she finally consented to go on the potty, at which point I nearly cried with relief and elation over the successful "capture" and self-pity at what my life had become.

The title of this post refers to the fact that this incident involving Number 1 is the Number 2 most horrifying experience I've had in parenthood, the first being the time I was at Barnes & Noble 40 minutes away from home, out for the day with AC as a 3-month-old, sitting in a corner of the cafe, nursing her discreetly under a wrap, when I felt something dismayingly warm and wet on my leg and realized she had had an enormous, blowout breastfed-baby poop (for the uninitiated, that means it was roughly the color of mustard and consistency of yogurt) that had exploded up the back of her diaper, leaving a gob about the size of an ice cream scoop on my pants, there under my serene nursing cover. I stayed calm, let her finish, and tried to plan a strategy that would allow me to unlatch her without smearing it all around, get her back into the stroller without transferring the mess from her onto the stroller, and get us both with our gear from the cafe to the restroom without making it totally apparent to all the nearby bookbuyers that I was covered in human excrement.

That incident was definitely number one because of the public situation, though this recent one was a close second because of an added stressor, which was that I needed the urine sample within a short window of time: after teaching my class, before her nap, so that I could get it up to the lab before they closed for the weekend and be back in time for all of us to go out to another appointment. Like I said, it's been like a reality show around here, bizarre twisty challenges and all.