Dairy Queen & Diaper Cream

  Finally.  Finally, finally, am I to the point in which I think I've got it together as an organized, on-the-ball new mom.  I can pack a diaper bag, suitcase, and load the Mom Mobile for a 5 hour road trip and make it to my destination with a happily napping baby.

  Dairy Queen screwed everything up.

  2.5 hours in to our return trip home, the P and I stop at Chick-Fil-A for chicken nuggets and a giant lemonade for me, and sweet corn casserole baby food for her.  I was proud of myself for ordering food, unwrapping a straw, and setting up a table, complete with high chair, all with one hand, as I carried an eighteen pound extension of me on my hip.

  Now, I'm not going to deny I didn't swell with pride when my fellow chicken lovin' restaurant patrons gushed over "little blue eyes".  (Their words, not mine).  I carefully dressed her in a soft pink, green, and white lace dress, matching bloomers with pink ruffles, and huge pink monogrammed bow.  Oh, and I just might have been wearing a pink dress myself.  Pathetic, I know.  But, this is what you do with baby girls.

  After lunch, we continued southbound.  I thought I'd treat myself to an iced coffee from none other than Texas' very own stop sign, Dairy Queen.  As I pulled into the parking lot, it became a reality that my 64oz lemonade had quickly and efficiently hydrated my body.

  "OK, I either potty dance uncomfortably the remainder of the two hours home, or I find a way to use the girls' room with an eight month old."  I thought to myself.  I chose the latter.  "Alright, I can do this!"  Why not?  The Chick-Fil-A lunch hour went so smoothly, surely, this too, would be a breeze.

  Baby on my hip, I hurried into DQ and pushed the door to the bathrooms open with my shoulder.  I try not to touch anything with my hands in a public bathroom for fear of catching an incurable disease.  I quickly realize this is going to be anything but easy and pleasant.

  Strike #1:  NO PURSE HOOK.  What the hell am I supposed to do with my beloved purple leopard print Betsey Johnson purse?  I run my hands under the bottom of my purse and feel four metal peg legs attached for such occasions.  I'd rather not, but I have no choice.  I silently apologize to my purse and reluctantly place it on the ground.  A disgusted shiver literally runs up my spine.

  Strike #2: UNNECESSARILY GIANT DOOR THAT OPENS TOO DAMN WIDE.  Why might this be a problem?  Let me tell you.  In order to shut the door properly, I had to back up, up, up until my leg TOUCHED the toilet bowl!  Another shiver.  Could have worn jeans, but nooooo, somebody wanted to be pretty princess mommy and wear in a pink dress like her baby.

  I will not go into detail how I maneuvered and contorted myself and a baby for the whole reason of visiting this bathroom, but I will tell you this.  As soon as I did...the baby did.  It was like our bodies were in perfect sync.  I made a mental note that I would have to change her in parking lot after I purchased a Mocha Moolatte.

  Strike #3:  NO PAPER TOWELS.  I hate hand dryers.  Anyways, I turned it into an exploratory opportunity for the baby and let her go to town under the heated wind.

  Strike # flippin' 4:  Every germ fearing public bathroom visitor knows why a lack of paper towels is nearly catastrophic, DOOR HANDLES.  This is were I'm sure P heard me say her first explicit.  Enter shiver number three.  There is not a skinny handle I can quickly grab, swing open, and then wipe my hand on my clothes like it is on fire.  It is a DOOR KNOB.  A sticky, grimy, trick door knob that does not open on the first time, thus ensuring ones' hand must grasp firmly for 2.5 seconds, or germ transmitting eternity, in order to open.

  Oh, and there were two doors.

  The only thing at this point that could possibly heal me of this experience is the original reason for my visit.  I grabbed my iced coffee and headed to the car.  Of course, it's an egg frying kind of hot day, so I am sweating and quickly losing my got-it-together-mom look.  I open the trunk which doubles as a traveling diaper changing table.  I am greeted with the most terrible looking diaper rash.

  It's 103 degrees and I am slapping extra strength diaper cream on my baby's hiney in a fast food parking lot.  I realize this is what my life has come to, Dairy Queen & Diaper Cream.  Soon, it will be Burgers & Boogers, or the inevitable finger point and loud declaration of some one who is large, elderly, bald, or missing a limb.

 Welcome to Motherhood.