Blaine’s grandmother passed away this week. We’re in Michigan for the funeral, after 650 miles of craziness traveling with eight children. I have no idea how many times we stopped for bathroom breaks. Ellie got car sick and threw up everywhere, and Stellan went into paper diapers for the trip, and more major blow out diapers than I can count later, I’m reminded why I use cloth.
Breathe. Just breathe. Do the next thing.
Blaine’s one of ten children, and all made the trip. Most of the spouses came, most of the kids came, and 40ish people are here for the long weekend. The kids are having the time of their lives.
Stellan’s been fussy. Over simulated. It’s hard.
Today was the funeral. Stellan started an all out scream just as we sat down, post grandchildren-of-the-deceased processional. I bolted for the door, but didn’t make it nearly fast enough. We were in the front row. It may have been one of my more humiliating experiences lately. Elliot feel asleep during the service and woke up soaked. I don’t carry extra clothes for her anymore. Mom fail.
At the cemetery for the committal service, Stellan screamed. It was snowing. I finally just went to the van. Elliot soon followed. There we were, Stellan finally happily nursing and Elliot playing in the back seat when she frantically announced she had to go potty. Ruby joined us just about then, so she helped Elliot onto the potty chair that I keep in the van for just such occasions.
Elliot did not need to pee. She soon filled the van with a stench I’ll not soon forget. There we were, enclosed in my suddenly not nearly large enough 12 passenger van, Stellan still nursing, Ruby and I gagging, and Elliot feeling fabulous and singing, having relieved herself. In a potty chair. In my van. In a cemetery. Surrounded by relatives I haven’t seen for years but whom are certainly impressed with my eight children– particularly the one who had to be marched out screaming during both funeral and committal service for a lovely woman who was far more dignified than anything I’ve proven to be this trip.
I laughed so hard I cried. Call it stress, but that was funny. Then Elliot stepped in the potty. Still funny. Then my husband rescued me, found a discreet place to dispose of Elliot’s contribution to the crazy, most of my baby wipes were donated to the cleanup of both potty and shoe, and things calmed down again.
For now. This might go down in history as messiest trip yet.
I need a nap. And more baby wipes.