A Poopy Mom Moment

After all the stress I’ve been through recently, I decided I needed to treat myself to a few hours of pampering. I was sick of looking at split ends and black roots, so I decided a hair appointment at Noelle’s (the pricey salon a few miles from my house) was in order. Besides, there’s no better therapist than your colorist. I was sitting in a chair with my feet up, reading the latest issue of In Touch as my colorist unwrapped the foils in my hair when my cell phone rang. I debated ignoring it but then I realized it was Jo Jo’s nursery school calling, so I picked up.

“We’re just calling to let you know Jo Jo pooped,” her teacher said cheerfully on the other line.

“Oh no!” I said, groaning. This is Jo Jo’s third time pooping at school this week. She is on antibiotics to treat early stage Lyme disease and the meds are upsetting her belly, even though she’s also taking hefty doses of probiotics.

“Oh yes!” her teacher said cheerfully. Then, “would you like me to call your nanny instead?”

I thought about it for a brief instant—it was very tempting—and then I dismissed the thought. Ingrid, my nanny, was home with Teddy and Geoffrey, who were both napping. If she went to change Jo Jo she’d have to wake them up and I’d feel like a total crappy mother making her do that. I tend to suffer from guilt easily, and I was already feeling guilty about lounging around getting my hair colored while my husband slaved away at work and my nanny stimulated my children.

“I’ll be right there,” I said and hung up the phone.

“I have to leave,” I told the colorist. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

He looked horrified. “You could fry your hair!” he exclaimed but I was already out the door and running to my car. Part of me knew he was right but another part of me—the constantly guilty mom part—didn’t want to think about my three year old sitting in nursery school wallowing in a poopy pull up.

As I got into the car I looked at myself and did a double take. I still had foil stuck in my hair and I looked like a crazed Martian with various strands sticking up and out. I figured I could discretely slip into the school, change Jo Jo, and get back without too many funny looks but too my horror when I pulled into the school driveway the parking lot was full and there were a bunch of moms milling about. There must be some PTA meeting I don’t know about, I thought as I jumped out of my car. Everyone turned to look at me. Everyone gaped. And as I raced by then I realized the zipper on my shirt had somehow come open, exposing my huge size D nursing boobs and lovely post pregnancy belly and stretch marks for the entire world to see.

The class was in the middle of free play time when I zoomed in, but all the kids stopped what they were doing to stare, open mouthed at me.

“I’m in the middle of hair highlights,” I explained apologetically to Jo Jo’s teacher.

The school secretary strolled in to see what all the commotion was about. “And I thought I’d seen it all,” she said nonchalantly.

I was in the middle of changing Jo Jo in the bathroom when I suddenly felt a bunch of eyes on me. I looked up to see about half of Jo Jo’s preschool class regarding me somberly.

“Are you an alien?” one of them asked.

As I ran back out the door I saw a group of moms, huddled together, eyeing me warily.

“I was in the middle of a hair appointment!” I yelled and they nodded, looking confused.

“I hope she doesn’t oxidize,” I heard one of them say as I got into my car.

I made it back to Noelle’s within five minutes. I had been gone fifteen minutes total. “Thank god,” my colorist said as he rinsed me out. “I was worried you’d end up platinum.”

It all ended well. My hair looks fabulous and the color is to die for (pardon the pun).

So I guess it was all worth it, even if it means being the subject of the next PTA meeting.