On Friday the girls and I went to the huge mall. Part of the agreement with Bumblebee is that if she behaves herself while Hollywood and I spend a few hours looking at clothes and accessories, she'll get to spend an hour on the playground.
Let me explain the hell that is this playground. It's like any other mall playground, with the springy foam floor and the soft-material playground equipment. There is a circular bench all the way around for parents to sit and watch their darlings. It's tough to see them, though, with the fifty or sixty kids racing all about. About a year and a half ago, Bumblebee gave me quite a scare by walking out of the play area, unseen, and into a nearby store. Because of this, I'm usually vigilant about keeping my eye on her at all times, but on Friday I was seriously distracted.
A toddler skipped along in front of where I was sitting. He bent down to crawl through a tunnel and that's when it happened: A turd the size of an acorn fell out of his shorts. I looked around to see if anyone else saw this. Nobody seemed to notice. The ball of poo rested in the center of the floor, about ten feet in front of me. I could not stop staring at it. I was supposed to be watching Bumblebee race all over the playground, but my eyes were glued to this little round gem.
I did take the time to root through my purse to see if I had a tissue or something that I could pick it up with. But I don't have babies anymore, and so gone are the days when I'm prepared with that sort of thing. Kids raced by the turdball. They came dangerously close to it. I knew it was going to get stepped on, but what could I do? To my horror, a little boy with bare feet planted his heel on it. He noticed it, flung it off his foot, and there it lay, squashed, but still in tact (what a sturdy little feces!) in a new area of the playground. Still, nobody seemed to notice but me.
I was obsessed by now. I had to do something. It was my duty. I kept staring at it, but forced myself to look around for Bumblebee every so often. What should I do? Should I ask a diaper-bag equipped mother for a baby wipe? Should I tear off part of my J.Jill bag to scoop it up? It was my duty to do something since apparently everyone else was oblivious. I stressed about my options for what seemed like an eternity. In reality, it was only a few seconds before a very stylish woman planted that pancake poo onto the bottom of her four inch high Jimmy Choo boots.
I wonder when she noticed.
Studio Tip: Grip Arm Pin
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