He Accepted the Challenge

At his one-year checkup, we mentioned to Thumper's doctor that we thought he might be lactose intolerant. He was on a milk-based formula, but we had a few diaper incidents, so we switched him to soy. But he didn't like soy and wouldn't drink it, so we compromised and mixed them half and half. And there was peace and prosperity throughout the kingdom. So since we're getting the boy off the bottle, we asked the doctor what he thought about soy milk.

He's not a fan of soy milk because it's not fortified with as much stuff as whole milk. He said when the boy gets a little older, we can test him to see if he has a true milk allergy or a lactose intolerance like his Mama. The doctor suggested that, in the meantime, we "challenge" the boy by giving him whole milk and seeing what happens. I guess kids sometimes grow out of these things. So we've kept the morning and bedtime formula bottles and replaced the two post-nap bottles with a sippy cup of whole milk. But he doesn't like it. He sips it, then scoffs and throws it on the floor. He throws a fit if I insist. I'm sure all of our carpets are spotted with splashes of milk and will probably start smelling funny any day now. So he's been getting some whole milk, but not a whole lot.

Well today, Thumper decided to rise to the challenge. Only he misunderstood what the challenge was. He thought that, perhaps in honor of the Olympics starting today, he would go for new world records in the volume and distance categories. I spent twenty minutes on the floor of the Souper Salad bathroom, the one that doesn't believe in changing tables in men's rooms, cleaning horrible, noxious, chunky pudding off of him, his clothes, and the high chair. During lunch, I noticed a momentary reddening of his face and thought, "Well, I can probably wait to change him until we get over to the mall." The mall has beautiful bathrooms with a faux marble changing table built right into the wall. In the men's room!

So we finished our lunch, left our tip, and as I was reaching down to unbuckle him, I noticed a pool of goo sitting on the seat next to his thigh. It was smeared down the back of his leg and the front of the seat. I thought I'd caught a whiff of something when I took out my wallet for the tip, but I hadn't divined this. Did anyone else notice? Horrified, I hoped it hadn't already made it to the floor and rolled him straight into the bathroom and into the handicapped stall to get started on the cleanup. I'm sure the guy in the next stall thought I was a rude son of a bitch, because he kept grunting and farting, and I kept saying, "Oh. Oh God. Oh, that's horrible. Oh, Jesus." I tried to amuse myself as I worked by imagining the news story I'd see later on when we got home: "Thirty-six people were caught in this horrible, tragic mudslide. Thirteen remain missing, but rescue workers are still optimistic that more survivors will emerge as they continue to dig through the night."

Twenty minutes later, with Thumper cleaned and into a fresh onesie, I rolled the high chair back out again. I said "Um, excuse me?" to a passing waiter and explained that I'd done my best to clean the chair up, but it should probably be disinfected or something. He stood like a statue while I spoke. I don't think he was even breathing. When I finished, he said, "Oh. OK." I said, "I'm sorry about that," and he said, as he probably felt he had to, "That's OK." Even though I'd washed it down with about a whole pack of baby wipes, plus more than a couple anti-bacterial wipes, I didn't want to just roll it back out to be used by the next unsuspecting parent to come along, although by that waiter's reaction, I wouldn't be surprised if that's what happened anyway. Oh, parenting certainly has its moments, doesn't it?

So anyway, I guess if the doctor ever tells us to "challenge" the boy again, I might just kick him in the balls.