on changing tables (or lack thereof)

So.  Today I went to a Clemson basketball game with my dad while Mom kept Roscoe (Mom's idea.  Nana rocks!)  Dad and I had so. much. fun.  I'm so thankful for my daddy dates!

On the way to meet them, I stopped to grab a sub at Firehouse.  I really had to go to the bathroom.  And there had been a miscommunication between Mark and me, resulting in Roscoe's cloth diaper overflow (don't worry--just pee) which soaked his jeans.  So I placed my order and slipped into the ladies' bathroom only to discover!!!!!!!!:

No changing table.

CURSES ON THE DAY I WAS BORN!  SERIOUSLY?!?!?

Ugh.

See. the cool thing about public restroom baby changing stations (besides their affordability) is that they have fancy shmancy straps that allow you to fixate your child on the table should you have to use the facilities when you don't have a stroller or are out with the baby by yourself.  Usually this works if it's a single/family restroom instead of the ones with stalls, because you can entertain your baby with expressions and dumb baby talk I said I'd never do but I do anyway gestures and such.  Yes, I'm sure this would look ridiculous were I a fly on the wall, and if there's someone standing outside waiting for their turn it probably sounds funny too, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Speaking of desperate times.  I'd had a cup of coffee and a full nalgene of water (32 oz) on the drive down.  I really had to go and there was no turning out of the bathroom.  So, mommies who've been in this situation..... What do you do?  (Please forgive my candidness in this post.)  Well, you've gotta get creative with angles and really use those muscles you've been building up in your Insanity workouts and maneuver the baby in such a way that you can still.....um.....well, get into the right position to use the bathroom. Because I KNOW you're not going to put your child on the floor if he's not walking yet.  I mean seriously, Roscoe is a pro at standing and leaning and holding onto objects for stability, and I'm a veeeeery relaxed mom (I never once washed off the paci when it fell nipple down, and sometimes I give back the food to Roscoe that he threw on our kitchen floor, and I don't freak out when he does pretty much anything), but ain't no way for one second I'm putting him on the floor of the bathroom when the floors are wet and black around the edges and I don't know who or what has been in that bathroom.

So, mission accomplished.  I am now feeling much better, and use those same techniques as mentioned above to get myself put back together.  Jut the hip out, put Roscoe under my arm like I'm carrying a pillow in with my luggage to a hotel room, put that side of my body away from the sink, and manage to get both hands washed without his little octopus limbs going into the stream of water.

This is where I take a big breath and tell myself this child-rearing job is important and rewarding and God's-kingdom-building, but really, can't you just have a changing table?!

Oh, right!!!!  Changing table.  Roscoe needs to be changed.  At this point I'm very tempted to go out into the eating area and whip out the ol' diaper and plop Roscoe down on a table.  But I don't even have a pad or sheet or paper towel to lay him on, and I'm not about to spread out napkins.  The statement would be much more effective if I just laid him on the bare table.  Don't worry, I didn't.  But ooooooh, I wanted to.

YOU'RE A RESTAURANT.  MOTHERS WANT TO EAT TOO SOMETIMES.  And sometimes, those mothers are alone with their babies when their babies have soaked jeans because they peed too much in their cloth diaper because you're trying to save the planet and money and your baby's butt and all you want on the earth is a changing table so you can get your baby dry and

"To go order ready for Marie."

(Yeah, just Marie.  When I have to give my name that's what I give, because saying "Anne Marie" apparently sounds like a foreign language and takes too much conversation and communication when it was supposed to be a simple matter.  The double name throws people.  And I hate being called just Anne.  So, Marie it is.)

I grab my sub and head to the door.  It's raining.  Fantastic.  So I go out, throw my stuff inside the front of the car, and lay Roscoe down in the back seat and begin to change his diaper.  By the way, my car is a 4 door Nissan Sentra.  It's awesome.  I've been more than thankful for it, but with the carseat in the middle of the back seat, it doesn't give much room at all for baby-changing.  Oh yeah, my head is the only thing not stuck out in the rain.  And I keep bumping Roscoe's head against the plastic base of his carseat.  He's crying, I'm internally crying and swearing, and beginning to think I should've just changed him on the counter between the registers.  Finish up, put him in his seat, and go to get in the driver's seat, which, by the way, is soaked because I stupidly left the door open.

So it made for a good thing to blog about, but really......  For the sake of all mothers' sanity and everything good and holy, please, if you have a business with a public restroom, buy a baby changing station!  (Unless maybe you're a cigar shop, or a bar, because people shouldn't have a reason to take their babies there.)  Mothers and nannies and babysitters (and anyone who's ever had to change a kid in public) everywhere will be more likely to give you their business.  Because I, for one, really don't want to go back to Firehouse soon.