I had a flashback during a phone call with my friend (from the car, during my commute home, my only 40-80 minutes of privacy that I ever have…).  We were talking about kids and ‘accidents’.  I shared with her an  event that I, for some reason, had blocked from my memory:

When my daughter was two, she poo’ed (for lack of a better word) on the floor at a tire store while I was waiting for my husband’s new tires to be put on his vehicle.  Her diaper ruptured right behind the Michelin man cut-out.  Some unmentionable substance with the viscosity of mushroom soup slid down her leg and made an impressive puddle on the tile.  She then toddled towards me in the 4-chair waiting area, where I was thumbing through a ‘Car and Driver’ from 1993 (‘The Last of the Yugos‘ and ‘T-Birds, T-Tops and T-Bones-Pure Heaven!’).  My eyes grew to the size of a box of wet wipes when I realized my youngest darlin’ was tracking smelly footprints all across the showroom floor.  I swooped her up and ran, beet red and slightly gagging, to the shop restroom.  I bathed her in the bathroom sink which was amazingly clean (before our visit).  Thankfully I had a change of clothes and diapers in her diaper bag, which for me, is an amazing feat.  I then occupied her with some long-forgotten kids’ meal toy from my purse (yes, I left her *in* the bathroom, hoping beyond hope that no one else would use the ladies’), and ventured out to nonchalantly clean the floor.  I intensely scrutinized tire brands, tread patterns and inflation techniques while pushing my foot on several wet and soapy paper towels.   (Repeat dozens of times).

An hour later, the tires were finally put on, my hands and child were red from the scrubbings, but the evidence was pretty much gone.  Even with all of my hard work I’m sure we’ve been 86′ed from that entire chain of tire stores.  I haven’t been back to find out. 

I hope my husband enjoyed his damn tires.

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