High Church

When I was a slightly younger man and had the margin in my life to get dressed up for church, it was not uncommon for me to be seen in a Seersucker suit in the summer time.  Nothing says southern gentlemen like a Seersucker and white bucs.  It is sharp, and I can safely say, that I looked sharp in it. 

On this particular Sunday, we had gone to pay a visit to the in-laws on Lookout Mountain.  The church my in-laws attend is very nice, and its congregants typically dress well, the men in coats and ties.   And, it is the same church the LW and I were married in, and the church she grew up in, so it always fun for us to attend.

We only had one child at the time, so it was a no brainer to get dressed up, including him, and still manage to get to church with a couple of minutes to spare.  Clothes little boys wear in this neck of the woods are often ridiculous.  They have snaps and buttons and folds galore, which can be very disconcerting in the case of an emergency.  In this instance, our son was still in diapers, which hind-sight being 20-20, were a size or three too small.  He had what I like to refer to as a pooplosion. 

I am not sure how an enfant does it, but they poop so violently and with such force that it explodes out each fitted leg of the diaper, and up the crack in his butt right up his back.  This time, it was like a car bomb exploded.  It went down both legs to his shoes and up his back to his collar.  You couldn’t get away from it.

Being a mostly capable husband, I gave the LW a look of sheer panic, and started to hand the baby to her.  She immediately gave me the, “Oh hell no!” look with her eyes and facial features, and shooed me out of the sanctuary.  Apparently she was in greater need of Jesus that day than I was.  That soon changed.  Fortunately, I had the foresight to sit close to the door, so it was a quick exit that went mostly unnoticed. 

I carried Junior at an arms length with our effeminate diaper bag slung over my shoulder in the least immasculating way possible.  We went down the stairs to the nearest men’s bathroom, to determine the extent of the damage.  Everything he had, without exception, was unwearable.  Younger parents I am sure are more than a little familiar with a nursing child’s poop.  It does not smell terrible, but is sticky and stains everything it touches a light brown.  That is what this was, only in mass quantity. 

Men’s bathrooms are generally poorly equipped for changing, and this old school church was no exception.  That is usually a good thing because it keeps me from having to do a lot of work.  All I have to say to the LW is, “Sorry.  Nowhere to change him in there.  You’ll have to take him to the ladies room.”   I had no where to lay Strib down, so I tried to hold him in one hand and remove the offending articles of clothing with the other.  It was akin to holding a greased pig in one hand, while all the time trying not to get any grease on my person.  That didn’t work, so I ever so gently laid him on the floor and continued to clean.  Fortunately the floor was clean, or at least it was at this point.  It was not long before I had run out of baby wipes and had moved on to the hand towel roll above my head.  The hand towel was not very absorbent, ultimately smearing and pushing around more than it was cleaning up.  At this point, I am covered in baby poop, have it on the floor, both sleeves, the bottoms of my shoes, and my nose is beginning to itch, and I could use a little more Jesus, and a little less kid. 

I finally gave up, turned on the warm water in the sink, and plopped him in.  That worked great until he started to enjoy the bath and splashed nasty water all over the place.  Then, once I had him mostly clean, I had to use even more towels to dry him off. 

I finally emerged, well after the conclusion of the service, with an empty diaper bag, a naked baby, and a ruined Seersucker suit.  I have never revisited that bathroom, simply because I know what we did to it.  There is no way, absolutely no way, the custodial crew was able to clean it to my satisfaction.  To this day, when I am attending church there and I need to use the little general’s room, I bypass that bathroom and find one that is as far away from it as possible. 

I walked outside and handed Strib to the LW, took off my own clothes, put my white bucs in a plastic bag, then in a paper bag, in the trunk, and sat in the car with a cloud over my head.  Everyone, with the exception of us, had long since left, so me standing in the middle of the road in my boxer shorts was poor form, but acceptable.  All my mother in law and the LW could do was laugh and enjoy my misery.   My mother in law still can’t talk about it without bending over double and laughing at me until she can’t breath.  I hope they enjoyed the service, and prayed for me.