Worst Play Date Ever a.k.a. The Day of Shame

Mikayla is the only one who isn't in trouble in this tale.

I have officially renamed last Friday “the Day of Shame.”

I am willing to share this whole story with you only because I have read that sometimes other people’s troubles add laughter into your own life. Isaiah told me that you would end up laughing and believes that it has a high comedic value. Please hit the comment button and tell me if you’re laughing at the end of this... My dignity will be destroyed but at least I’ll feel like I’ve lifted your own mood if you get a smile out of it.

I’m all about sacrifice for other people. It’s in my DNA.

Friday was supposed to be a good day. We have had only one official play date planned all summer long because we don’t do things like go out into public very much because my children have the volatility of say, a can of aerosol hair spray and a lighter and the predictability of a roulette table right now.

Needless to say, we were excited to go to Brooke’s house. The play date went really well, with the exception of the moment when Maggie streaked through the living room butt nekkid, but aside from that there were many giggles, little trouble, and a fashion show of every bathing suit in the house.

It was when I gave the girls 10 more minutes to play after lunch before we left that things got sketchy.

I was in the kitchen cleaning with the other mom when her middle school aged daughter burst into the room saying words that send dread into any mother’s heart:

“Mia just cut Brooke’s hair!”

What?!

Now, my children don’t really grow hair well and even when it’s come in it’s so curly that we always look a little wild-eyed and haywire. But Brookie... That girl has a gorgeous head of hair! It’s long, it’s brown, and it reaches nearly to her waist. She’s like Rapunzel minus the creepy locked away in solitary confinement aspect.

My heart was sinking as we bolted up the stairs to the bedroom. How bad? How much? WHY????

Three little girls were giggling at big sister’s desk and Maggie was holding a pair of blue-handled scissors. She was beaming. So were Brooke and Mia.

“We cut our hair!” they crowed triumphantly. I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

I do that sometimes when I’m nervous. Like the time I watched my sister go over the edge of a catwalk while skiing. I laugh when I get all quivery inside because I sense impending doom. I laughed the first time I was on a horse that sped up to a trot. I laugh right before I have a c-section. It’s a nervous tic.

We surveyed the damage. Mia had a bald spot over her right temple/ear area, Maggie had a much more pronounced widows peak than normal, and Brookie... Well THANK YOU GOD her buns were still in place! Her bangs...

They didn’t make it. In fact, she looked like the Flat Iron Mountains outside of Boulder, CO. Just a jagged jigsaw of brown tufts of hair across her forehead.

My mom friend began to pick up fistfuls of hair from the floor. Any hair on the girls that wasn’t trapped back in a ponytail had been cut. We got it all cleaned up and and I decided that we needed to leave... Pronto!... before we could do anymore damage in 10 minutes time. Mia was devastated that the play date was ending and began to cry as I went to start the car and get the air conditioner running.

That’s when things went from bad to worse.

As I leaned in to turn the key in the ignition I passed a little gas.

It surprised me because I usually do my best to keep all activities of this nature confined to the bathroom, but it’s natural, it can happen to anyone, so I wasn’t too concerned. As I walked around the car toward the front door I felt my belly continuing to bubble and thought it would be wise to get all gases out before I headed into the house to pry my children out.

I stood in the sweltering heat at the door, a sleeping Mikayla draped across one arm, my other hand on the doorknob, and thought intently about those tummy tremors. Once it seemed they had collected at the exit gate like thoroughbreds waiting for the starting shot at the Kentucky Derby I willed myself to let them be free, free to dissipate in the fresh, outdoor air!

It didn’t really feel any different during the release. But in the nanosecond following the release I felt an unusual warmth on my buttocks.

I opened the door and took a step inside the house and my underwear didn’t move across my bottom as I am accustomed.

Oh my goodness... I didn’t... I couldn’t possibly have... REALLY?? I HAVE POOPED IN MY UNDERWEAR??? IT CANNOT BE!!!!!!

I was not only in genuine shock, I was also in the house and I couldn’t escape. There weren’t too many options I could think of in the seconds between realization and horror, so I decided that I would try to bluff my way through. I would gather my kids, head out the door, and deal with my embarrassing predicament at home.

I took one more step and smelled it. Not a dirty diaper. My own bottom. The plan to bluff went down the toilet as soon as my nose was assaulted. I laid Mikayla down on the sofa and bolted to the bathroom!

Once in the safe haven of the powder room and behind the locked door I quickly undressed and cleaned up. Then came the next dilemma. While I could go commando home feeling uncomfortable what was I going to do with the evidence that I apparently haven’t been fully potty trained yet?!

I was not in any way inclined to leave my underwear in their trashcan as living proof of my shame nor did I want to carry the little suckers out in my bare hand, so I broke another rule of hospitality and quietly rummaged through the underneath sink area. THANK YOU GOD! - there were trash bags under there! I tucked my dirty underwear into the trash bag and slunk out to resume my bluff-it-out ruse.

I went out into the living room, plucked Mikayla up from the sofa and tried to hide my trash bag of nastiness underneath her as I ushered a wailing Mia and balding Maggie out the door and into the car as quickly as possible.

Safely out of the unfamiliar territory of the play date I then had to debate on whether to tell my husband why I had just been on the worst play date ever. It was a time of crisis for me – and I may have had some heart palpitations. There was definitely nervous laughter. But after mentally reviewing the facts I decided to err on the side of over sharing.

Seriously, in the space of one week I have not only been humiliated by three bananas and their skanky black banana pee and my children attempted to scalp an innocent classmate and each other, I’m 33-years-old and I pooped my pants. At a friend’s house. When I was not violently ill of scarlet fever or ruebella or Montezuma’s Revenge or something that could excuse this horrible predicament!

At some point you have to hit rock bottom and there’s nowhere to go but up. If I’m not there yet I’m scared to get out of bed tomorrow.


JJ