I want to say that little episode is the most horrifying thing that will ever happen to me, but I have been around the block enough to know that something, someday, will out do it in the grand contest of "Things That Turn My Hair Gray". That withstanding, it was a God-awful experience. How could so much poop explode from someone so tiny? I mean, really… it was like his body weight in dung. A two person clean up, obviously…or so I thought, until I saw Charlotte backing towards the door. I may or may not have lost my cool at that point.

            "Where do you think you are going?!" I calmly inquired. Or shrieked. Whichever.

            "I, um, I have to, uh, check on the other kids!" she stuttered desperately.

            "No! We both saw it happen, we are in this together!" I hiss. "You cannot leave me here alone, or I swear to everything good in this world that I will wrap up those little sneakers down there and give them to you for Christmas!" I may have sounded insane. "So unless you want a little poo with your Yule, you will help me!"

            I have already very much begun the process of trying to repress the memory of the actual clean up. There were diaper wipes, there were garbage bags, there was a little boy who seemed to think the whole ordeal was funny and wanted to run poopily around that overly prim office covered from his 'tocks to his toes. Ever try to catch a diarrhea covered 3 and a half year old? Come on. I dare you.

            That afternoon, after an extremely fast run into a grocery store praying to any deity that would listen to please let us make it out of the store with no more explosions, I armed myself with Pedialyte, bananas, and applesauce in hopes of rounding out the components of the B.R.A.T. diet, and then we headed home. A quick call to his pediatrician armed us with the always useful knowledge that "Oh, yeah. That's going around." Gee. Thanks for clearing that up.

             Poor little fella. He was feeling fine between the episodes, only to come about looking like the most pitiful thing you have ever seen right before the dash to the bathroom.

            The rest of my evening was spent trying to keep my little sick man wrangled away from the rest of the family, so as to keep the bug from further "going around". While I wrestled with Ollie to eat the bland fantastic-ness of dry toast and bananas, and begged him to drink what seemed like gallons of water and other fluids, Derek abandoned the concept of cooking the chicken I had laid out, and instead ordered a pizza for him and Abby. Once Ollie caught wind of that I was treated to a never ending influx of "WHY CAN'T I HAVE PIZZA TOOOOOOOOO!! NOT FAIR!!!" For a sickie, he was able to reach a surprisingly high decibel. Attempting to be a kind mommy and trying not to torture him any further, I opted out of my own cheesy, delicious slice, so as not to eat in front of him. I was however, slightly resentful of my husband who was oblivious to my suffering and never offered to come in and take over so I could grab a bite. Is it wrong that I hoped he burnt the roof of his mouth on the hot, bubbly cheese?

            I was thrilled that by the time he was tucked into bed, we had gone three hours without a potty dash, so I was feeling successful. And exhausted. And quite hungry. I was less than pleased to find not even a cold slice of that cursed pizza waiting for me.

            "Oh, honey, I am sorry!" Was my husband’s half-hearted reply, spoken while not once glancing away from the television, "Would you like me to go get you something?"

            "No, you jackass, I want you to go back in time and not be such an inconsiderate asshole and offer to have spent even a freaking hour with him so I could eat some dinner of my own, have a few moments to breathe or at the very least, pee in peace!" I screamed and dumped a cup of water on his head.

            "No, I'm fine."   That is what I actually said… grumbled more accurately, as I half heartedly searched the cabinets for Cup O' Ramen, and plotted smothering him in his sleep.

            As we tucked ourselves into bed, much later than I would have liked, Derek leaned over and just as I puckered my lips to receive my hard earned kiss, he stopped, and said those words that every woman in the world wants to hear while in the arms of a man.

            "Oh, did you wash my jeans? Tomorrow is casual Friday, and I really need them."

            "They are still in the washing machine." I whimper. "I can go transfer them if you need them."

            "Oh. Well. Never mind then." He plants a quick peck on my no longer puckered lips, and rolls over. "It's no big deal. You don't have to get up."

            We are not done. I know we are not. Come on buddy. Spit it out. Be a man!! Rip it off like a Band-Aid!!

            "It's just, you know, I didn't have them last week either because you forgot to wash them." He says with an audible pout. "But, you know, really, it's no big deal."

            Wait for it...

            "Maybe you can get them done by next week?" He yawns. "But really. No big deal."

            Great. He went and got guilt all over my comfy pajamas.

            With a hefty sigh, I fling off my covers, and set off downstairs to place the Jeans of Misfortune in the dryer… and consider which pillow to use for the smothering.

             The next morning, Ollie woke up full force, and after numerous inquests from me as to whether or not he really, really, really felt all better and wanted to go to school, I said a prayer, crossed myself, and got him ready. It kills me how fast kids get over illnesses. Man, to have that kind of resiliency again. You know, as a little kid, when you fall down, you just pick yourself up and keep going on with whatever it was you were doing, not even caring that anyone saw you take the spill. As an adult on the other hand, when you fall, you fall hard. You don't get right back up, and you have that moment when you are genuinely concerned that you might have just broken a hip. If you are lucky enough to eventually peel yourself off the floor, you walk with a limp for a few days.

            After depositing my tots at their appropriate educational facilities, I drive with no enthusiasm to the mall. This mall used to be normal and full of regular people and JC Penny's…now it is ripe with overly tanned and insanely blond women, and designer shops that I am certain I am not legally allowed to set foot in at the risk of lowering the value of their clienteles’ shopping experience. Of course, what I really would like to do is grab them by their perfectly highlighted hair, and shove complex carbohydrates down their throats… and I would, too, but I keep eating the carbs before I am able to get a firm grip in the sinewy little suckers.

            Who knows. Perhaps it is that they label themselves stay-at-home mothers, all the while utilizing the services of full time nannies, cleaning services and the fact that their ovens have never even been plugged in. Or it could be the fact that I am insanely jealous and wish that I didn't have to battle frozen chicken and clogged vacuum cleaners, all the while wishing that the hardest part of my day was deciding on a polish color as I am getting my mani-pedi. I could live with that kind of stress. I really could.

            I am in quite the cranky mood at the thought of having to navigate my way through the Freudian corridors, past Cinnabon and Starbucks and other tasty treats that I fight the urge to nosh. I am already twice the size of most of the women I pass, I don't need to give them ammo for the verbal bashing/dietary plan that I imagine they all give me. May I take this moment to inquire who the hell chooses to go shopping in stilettos? I'll take my insanely comfortable sneakers, thank you very much.

            I can't believe all this craziness, this incredible blow to the ego, all self inflicted I should add, that has all come about for the sole purpose of picking up a new suitable pair of shoes to replace the ones ruined in yesterdays’ poopy assault. I must find another suitable pair to go with Oliver's little khaki ensemble that he is to wear to school. I still shake my head at the idea of a quasi-uniform for the post-toddler set. Whatever happened to jeans with holes in the knees, and T-shirts with various cartoon characters adorning them? Instead, I must suit my child up in mini Dockers, teeny golf shirts, and itty bitty mock Italian loafers. Of course, I would be willing to bet serious cash that several of those kids are wearing the actual Italian loafers, which to me is just ridiculous. They will outgrow them in like a week, and I think they cost more than my car payment… but hey, if that gets you going, by all means…

            I am feeling particularly grumpy today. I am trying to chalk it up to lack of sleep, which makes that Starbucks three stores away seem particularly inviting. The one seven stores away is just too damn far.

            I enter the bourgeois shoe store, cursing myself for caring enough to come here and not just abandoning the status quo to hit up the local Target, but instead fight the urge to turn and flee in a panicked flash, and head off for the Little Gentlemen's section.

            It's funny that there is literally a wall of black and brown dress shoes for the small footed fellows, and while I think they are trying to pass each of those off as a different style, I have a suspicion that they are all the same flippin' shoe, just positioned at slightly different angles…or it could be the fact that the wall has become a giant blurry mess. I want to go home and take a nap.

            Approached by the clerk, I select a shoe off the Wall of Whatever and announce Ollie's size, silently begging the young man to put some giddy-up in his step so that I can crawl back to my car in peace. I lean against a shoe rack, and suddenly my stomach lurches. Oh God. I am about to toss my toast on a display of glittery ballet flats. I hold my breath, and look around to see if, just in case I do let it fly, no one would be there to witness it.

            As if on cue, the shoe guy comes back with the box containing Ollie's shoes. Braving gravity, I lift my arm that I had been using to brace myself and take the box, giving him a worthy smile. While he thought that smile meant “Thank you for your time," in actuality it meant "How hard do you think it will be to clean my breakfast out of those wing tips?" He smiles, but does not move away. We give each other a strange stare down before he finally offers, "Is there something else I can get you ma'am?"

            "No thank you," I say in an appropriately strangled voice. "Just looking."

            As he scurries off- Hey! Wait a minute, was that an eye roll? Screw it. I am too ill to care. Fine, roll your eyes, you little bastard. Soon, there will be puke all over your dandy displays. Then we'll see who’s laughing! Although to be honest, I doubt I would laugh, because… let's face it, it would be gross.

            Then, by the grace of God, as quickly as the urge to hurl hit me, it was gone. I take in a deep breath, and pull my shoulders back. Whew! Dodged a nasty bullet there! Maybe I ate something weird last night... oh yeah, ramen noodles. This once again reminds me to plot revenge on Derek.

            I sashay up to the register to ring up my bounty, and as I wait for the woman in front of me to finish up, I hear an ever so subtle gurgle. Um. Did that come from me? The woman in front of me turns, and I feel that she is wondering the same thing. I feel nothing, and hear no other gurgley-type noises, so I smile and study the tiny rack of shoelaces in front of me.

            Oh crap. There it is again. This time even the cashier looks at me. I am planning to throw out a witty remark, but before I can open my mouth, I am suddenly burning up, and sweating. I feel the color drain rapidly out of my face, and it is clear by the faces of the women staring at me that I am not hiding any of this. Sweet lordy, what is happening to me?

            Oh. No.

            The gurgle returns, and I am now painfully aware that the stomach lurch didn't disappear, but instead made its way downward. Yes, my friends, I am about to behold a phenomenon that takes place in the land that lies below vomit. I am filled with horrifying dread that right here, right in the checkout line of this over-priced footwear shop, I am about to repeat Oliver's event from yesterday. Now available in Adult Size!!

            "Are you all right?" The woman at the register asks. The other shopper looks more afraid than concerned, and I swear she is clutching her purse tighter.

            "Oh, yes, I am fine!" I lie, "Thank you so much for asking!"

            They continue ringing up the other woman's purchases, and I am tossing it around in my head to abandon the shoes and head for the hills. No, I think I can make it. I must. I don't want to have to come back tomorrow. Surely I can hold it until I get home. Yes. That is my plan.

            OMIGOD, why is she taking so long ringing up those shoes!?!? Not a lot of complication here!!! Key in the price, and move the hell along!!

            Finally, she signs her blasted credit card receipt and I nix the desire to push her bony, Prada-clad ass out of my way.

            I have one pair of shoes. Why is this taking so long? I have stumbled upon the world's slowest cashier. That's it. I must be on some sort of snail-paced reality show meant to torture unsuspecting customers with digestive issues. Hardy-har-har.

            I ignore her judgment-filled and confused looks, and the second I get my name on that receipt, I yank my bag out of her hands and tear out of that store, nearly knocking down a properly dressed elderly woman. I am feeling lucky that she didn't hit me with her cane, and I know at that moment, that there will be no making it home. We are in full, total meltdown here. Sirens should be going off. People could get hurt.

            Bathrooms. Must find bathrooms. Where the bloody frick is that "You Are Here" sign that plagues every mall in America?!

            I am becoming desperate. I am in pain… I am very concerned that I am not going to make it, but take a moment to admire the fact that at least I could buy another pair of pants to wear home! I mean, I'm in a mall!

            I see the sign, the beautiful sign, that indicates that my salvation is a door away, and head for it in a dead sprint. I fling open the door to see...

            A LINE!!! Are you fucking kidding me with this?!

            I take my place, clench my butt cheeks, and pray silently. I am sweating, I am pale, and I am bouncing around in a little dance that has given the woman next to me the impression that I must be waiting to get into a stall to shoot up. Man, there are a lot of women in here. I swear the first one I sense dawdling in a stall is going to have to stay in there with me when I let go.

            Finally my turn arrives, and I am crestfallen to see that my stall is the one located next to the door. What have I done that karma would be punishing me so? I have to have this happen with a line of preppy women standing three feet away?

            I am in too much pain to care enough to wait, so I bolt inside, slide the little lock thing, and start clawing at the button on my pants.

            Okay, I am down, I am ready. I am, to be quite honest…scared.

            Literally within seconds, it starts. I am truly horrified by the aquatic symphony that emits from my little area, and shocked by the acoustics the porcelain creates and how the enclosed area combined with the tile seems to amplify all these oh, so pleasant sounds. I am in utter turmoil now, and I gratefully clutch the handicap rails along the walls, bracing myself. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming, and I notice the increasing number of feet gathering on the other side of the door.

            People can hear the sounds. How could they not? I would be blessed if the people outside the bathroom don't hear. I have gone far beyond the unspoken rule of allotted time given to a person in a public restroom, and I continue the panic as everything I have ever eaten, ever, comes rushing out of my body.

            After a few continuous moments of this, the actual content seems to run out and I am treated to what can only be described as intestinal dry- heaves. The most pleasant of sensations, I assure you.

            Finally, mercifully, I am done, although still in considerate pain. I am now left to wonder if the world would be suddenly kind enough to open itself up and swallow me whole to save me the trauma of having to open up that door and face the women on the other side. I wait for a second, giving the world ample opportunity to help a gal out, and it becomes clear my pleas will go unanswered.

            In a futile attempt to straighten myself, realizing that even in my top form, I still wouldn't be able to come out looking up to their standards, I clutch my tiny shopping bag, slide the lock open, and saunter out head held high. There is silence. I count eight women, all frozen in place, all sixteen of their eyes burning into me. They don't even attempt to look away, which would be the humane thing to do. No, they continue to stare. My legs try and betray my cool exterior and pull towards the door, but my need to grasp a shred of dignity prevails. Continuing the facade that is my confidence, I glide towards the sinks and begin to wash my hands. The next woman in line inches cautiously towards my freshly vacated stall, and in a move that will haunt me till the end of my days, actually gasps, loudly, and backs away from the door waving her hand in front of her face, assuming her position back in line.

            I am angry and I am mortified, but instead I choose to try and lighten the mood.

            "At least I warmed up the seat for ya!" I announce to the appalled women.

            Oh my gosh, there is no way I just said that out loud. No, this whole thing has not happened, I assure myself, and I give my hair a shake to rid myself of this dreadful hallucination. Um. There are still women staring at me. I shake a little harder.

            Oh shit.

            I accept that I am in fact stuck in a reality that is cruel and inescapable. And so, with my shoes in hand and my tail between my legs, I ignore the glares that inform me that they are going to campaign for public restrooms to be divided into a class system, and push open the door. I die a little inside as I hear the disgust and laughter erupt as it closes slowly behind me.

            I dash for the exit, and make a solemn oath to the Cosmos that even though it is a full forty minutes further away, the mall on the other side of the city is now the only mall that my presence will ever grace, ever, till the end of time.