The Adventures in Backseat Breastfeeding continue...

Today when I dropped Rylee off at preschool she cried. She's never done that before. She always wraps around me like a prezel and I have to unwind myself while balancing Izzy, but she's usually good once the teacher offers to sit by her while she colors or something. Today they had the watercolors out, which is her favorite thing in the world, so I was caught completely off guard by her tears. I finally left her crying with the teacher holding her and me feeling awful. I climbed with Avery and Izzy into the back of the minivan (remembering to lock it this time) and sat down and began to feed Izzy while I talked to my mom on the phone.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Avery begin to squat. "I need to go potty!" She yelled through the pacifier clenched between her teeth. I know she's too old to have it, especially out in public, but between the move and having 3 children under 4, it was the least of my problems. Actually, her cry sounded more like, "I neeth tha tho pothy!" with the passy in her mouth.

I ripped Izzy off and tried to shift my bra with my one free hand to make it appear semi-fastened instead of the gaping ripple it was under my shirt as we raced back toward the preschool potty. As we walked/ran I noticed the back of her pants were already wet and became annoyed that I hadn't just stayed in the car and finished feeding Izzy since she'd clearly already gone.

The three of us crowded into a restroom stall and I pulled her wet pants and underwear down with my free hand and hoisted her up onto the toilet seat where she proceeded to let out the longest stream of pee imaginable. I quickly said a prayer of thanks that I hadn't stayed in the car. After a lengthy handwashing process we left the bathroom and she ran towards the preschool kids in Chapel across the hall.

What then happened is what has happened to all of you moms when you try to get your kids to do something in public--like leave the park. You start with the one-minute-warning. When that doesn't work, you do the last time down the slide technique. When that doesn't work, you use severe threats. When even the threat of time-out, no blanket or nightlight, or a favorite doll being put in time out doesn't work, you resort to begging and pleading.

A similar scene ensued in the preschool hall and Avery threw herself to the ground crying. Moms walked by with symphathetic comments of, "I so understand" and "Been there done that." Finally I summoned my super-mom strength and lifted little Miss Wetpants up in one arm while carring Izzy in the other and headed out the door.

Once outside she insisted on walking by herself. A dad happened to be walking behind us and noticed her wet pants. "WHOOP!" he said loudly. "WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!" I wanted to slug him.

Back in the safety of our locked minivan I started to feed Izzy again and called my mom back. Two minutes into the conversation and feeding I saw Avery at the front of the car gripping the seats and arching her body stiffly.

"AVERY! DO YOU NEED TO POOP!?!?" I shrieked. Avery started to cry and I ripped Izzy off again and hung up on my mom, while telling Avery she better not poop in her underwear. We walked by the preschool receptionist for the fifth time that morning and squeezed into an even smaller bathroom stall. I did my one-handed pants pulldown again and lifted her onto the toilet where she sat screaming and crying about the poop that had gotten on her leg from her already soiled (and previously wet) underwear.

I could tell this was going to be a two-handed job, so I humbled myself and left Avery crying on the toilet and asked the receptionist if she could hold Izzy during our "potty emergency." After 5 minutes of cleaning, we left the bathroom with one of us no longer wearing underwear. I retrieved Izzy, shoved them both in carseats, and listened to Avery ask if she could have a piece of gum for going poo poo on the potty while we drove home, no longer able to hit Super Target as planned due to some missing underwear and wet pants.

The End.

Of my life. Literally. For at least 5 more years. Do you see why Avery still having a pacifier is the least of my problems?