I had the grey poop-on

So there I was, vacationing in West Virginia, and my mom (vacationing with us) wanted to take us to a fancy restaurant. I'd seen one in a small town only half an hour away a few days earlier, so up we went, 30 minutes away for a meal that was neither fast food nor a diner (and that we didn't cook ourselves).

We arrive in the parking lot, just in time for I pull the sleeping 15-month old, Choclo, out of his car seat. He dreamily snuggles against me. He's so warm, I think.

A little too warm.

I look down--and virtually his entire back is covered in mustardy poo, which had bravely escaped from the confines of Choclo's diaper. So is my arm. And half the chest of my grey shirt.

Did I mention that we were 30 minutes from home?

So I send Grammy, Pop, my wife, and the 4 other kids inside the restaurant, as I gloriously self-sacrificially tell everyone else I'll take care of it. A few diaper wipes my better half had pre-plannedly left in the car got rid of any, um, excess waste that the fabric hadn't absorbed. I then walked off, carrying Choclo, to find a clothing store.

Did I mention it was a small town?

I walked eight blocks on the main drag and found no clothing store. I did, however, stumble upon a gun shop. I saw jackets on sale through the window, and I dared to hope.

Now, I'm not into guns. I've never shot a gun. Truth be told, I don't particularly care for guns. But there I was--and it must have been a sale day or something, because there were about fifteen people in that gun shop, plus three behind the counter. I hugged Choclo a little closer to me, less to protect him then to try to cover up the large poop stains on my grey shirt. Using my free arm, I started looking through the jackets.

What an amazing array of camouflage they make these days. The normal brown-and-green I knew about, and I sort of knew about the more tannish desert camouflage, but black-and-white camouflage? What's the use of that? So that you won't be noticed if you're walking among zebras? I kept looking.

Yes, there was a T-shirt section. Gun photo T-shirts. NRA slogan T-shirts. You can have my handgun when you can pry it from my cold, dead fingers T-shirts.

"I'd rather wear the poopy shirt," I mutter. Very, very quietly, though.

Finally, I find a dull green shirt with a picture of a tree and the words "Mossy Oak." Same on the back, but bigger. It's $14.95. I normally don't pay more than $10 for anything. I go up to the counter without a second thought.

Have you ever tried to dig out a credit card while strategically holding a baby in order to conceal a large poop stain? If so, try signing the credit card slip afterwards. Whole new world.

Casually, I ask the cashier if they know anywhere nearby that sells baby clothes. Walking distance.

Blank looks.

"You know, like a thrift store or anything?"

Aha. They tell me about a thrift store just three blocks and two turns away.

I walk out holding the bag that loudly advertises me as a gun shop customer, priding myself on the fact that no one asked if they smelled anything funny. Three blocks and one turn away, I think maybe I should change my shirt. I could use the rare clean sections of the old shirt to wipe my chest down a little, I figure. Two things stopped me.

First, I wasn't quite sure what to do with Choclo while I changed. As I considered the question, I arrived at obstacle two: he was still poopy. Poopy baby + clean shirt = poopy shirt. Painful as it was, I kept the clean shirt in the bag and the poopy shirt on me.

The first thing I notice when I walk in the door of the thrift store is a big men's T-shirt rack, $1 each.

Well, I found a baby outfit, changed baby and me, and made it to dinner only 40 minutes late. I got lots of compliments from the assembly as to my shirt.

I still wear it today. But that grey shirt, not so much.