This Is So, So Gross

It's been an unrealistic fear, hidden in the recesses of my mind, that something like this would happen one day.

And now the day has come. The fearsome thing has happened.

It goes like this:

When Mia was in diapers, we used a Diaper Genie to hide her beastly productions. We shoved that thing full of all manner of nastiness, knowing we'd have to empty it later, but enduring the task for a lack of better options. And when we'd open it to be emptied later, well, it wasn't a fun job. It was the most malodorous, stinking heap of wadded up plastic and balled up diapers you could ever hope (or NOT hope) to encounter. I think I withered a few brain cells trying to empty it while holding my breath, choosing the more pleasant way to dizzy myself: from asphyxiation rather than odoriferocity (I'm sure that's a word, right?). Plus, the liners required to make the gadget work seemed far too expensive.

So, I wasn't a fan of the Diaper Genie.

When Lauren came along, I banned the Genie from the nursery. I preferred to walk to the garage and place the dirty diaper directly into the trash bin, a practice that became a contentious point between Justin and I. Because I became lazy about it. I'd toss the wadded-up, taped-down diaper down the garage steps or down to the garage doors where the trash bin waited, being too lazy or BUSY with the business of motherhood to walk all the way to the bin, lift the lid, and throw the diaper in.

Sometimes, though, a wayward fantastical nightmare scenario would flit across my consciousness about the possible downfall of my chosen diaper removal method. In scenario A, the diaper would be flying down the length of the garage, on its way to the floor beside the trash bin, when the tapes would inexplicably come loose, unleashing the contents of the heavily soiled diaper all over our car, our recycling bins, and our lawn chairs, before entirely exploding when it landed on the floor. Horrific to imagine. Improbable, but horrific. I worked hard to avoid the manifestation of this scenario.

In scenario B, a diaper would be flung down to the trash bin end of the garage by my admittedly bad throwing arm, landing under the back of our vehicle instead of in its intended resting place, and be forgotten about until it was run over by the back wheel of our SUV, SPLOOFing its smashed contents on the cement floor before being smudged all over our tires or dragged across our garage. And while I worked hard to avoid the manifestation of this scenario as well, I also underestimated my ability to remember when I'd mis-thrown a diaper.

Which happened the other morning. There was a hidden diaper, fouled and filled, languishing directly behind our rear tire.

Justin started the car...the girls were buckled safely into their carseats...I was nestled happily into the passenger side...Justin backed the car out of the garage...

SPLOOF.

Contents. Smashed on the cement floor. Shot out both sides of a day-old diaper.

And away we drove. Never again to return.

Except, we had to return. We did rock-paper-scissors to decide who had to clean up the mess.

The winner (loser!?) is still rocking himself in the fetal position, trying to eradicate the nightmares from his delicate mind.

Potty training should probably now be amped up to full throttle.

Peace be with you.