the loaded diaper museum
We just returned last night from a trip to Maine to visit my sister and her family. It was a long drive, very rainy the first few days, then beautiful for the rest. I spent my 30th birthday kicking my husband's butt at miniature golf (2 holes in one, thank you very much), eating lobster corn chowder, and browsing old Nancy Drew books. I spent other days drawing at the harbor, playing with nephews and my son, going to the bar with my sister, and crocheting while watching professional wrestling with my brother-in-law. Talk about eclectic. Not to mention the normal touristy things like boat trips, feeding ducks, scenic drives etc. It really was a blast.
We stopped in boston to see friends on the way back, and I have re-confirmed my belief that taking a toddler to an art museum is usually a bad idea. Taking toddlers anywhere can be a bad idea, but museums have that perfect blend of un-run-aroundable open spaces, echoing halls (great for screaming!), sublime water fountains, short pedestals perfect for climbing but never allowed, and usually one baby-changing station in the whole cavernous place, impossible to find until you've already made do on a wet countertop.
I love John Singer Sargent, and was thrilled to see his huge portrait of the Boit children there, which I copied (very small) in college. Several of his other pieces were there, but it's so hard to look at art when I am not by myself, and especially when I am worried about my son screaming his head off--or worse, repeating MAMA, MAMA, MAMA, MAMA, MAMA, MAMA as he is more wont to do. So we spent our time looking for paintings of doggies, people with boo-boos, and nuu-nuu people (naked, which my son loves pointing out).
Things were ok for a while, then we went to lunch, and I got up to take him to change his diaper. I lifted him up, and his entire bottom half, including his long shirt, was soaking wet. Like he had sat down in a kiddie pool. I haven't brought extra outfits with me for about a year and a half, because my son hasn't needed them for a long time. So I told D to go to the museum store and pick up a new shirt for him, and try and find some pants too, if they were to be had, and I took A to the aforementioned bathroom and started to change his diaper. The paper towel machine had a sensor to signal more towels to drop down, and of course I was right in front of it. The diaper left a puddle when I set it down, which has never happened in almost 2 years of changing soggy diapers. Then, as I was getting ready to put on the new one, A peed again, all over his sock and shoe, and changing pad, and already-wet countertop. Luckily I was setting off the paper towel machine with every move, so I never had a lack of those. My friend returned with the shorts that D washed, and a cute t-shirt with an artist on it. But the hand dryer just didn't cut it. So A walked around the rest of the day, through Harvard Yard no less, in his diaper and a t-shirt.
Some may say, what's the big deal here? and I am inclined to agree, a little, that my embarrassment is far greater than the situation should allow. Still, I felt like I myself was walking around without pants. And as much as I would like to give strangers the benefit of a doubt, I honestly don't think they would think highly of me if my kid is walking around pantsless, looking ridiculous, while we saunter along without a care. It's just the type of thing you read about in the paper and say, what a dumb woman. I guess I am the dumb one this time.
We stopped in boston to see friends on the way back, and I have re-confirmed my belief that taking a toddler to an art museum is usually a bad idea. Taking toddlers anywhere can be a bad idea, but museums have that perfect blend of un-run-aroundable open spaces, echoing halls (great for screaming!), sublime water fountains, short pedestals perfect for climbing but never allowed, and usually one baby-changing station in the whole cavernous place, impossible to find until you've already made do on a wet countertop.
I love John Singer Sargent, and was thrilled to see his huge portrait of the Boit children there, which I copied (very small) in college. Several of his other pieces were there, but it's so hard to look at art when I am not by myself, and especially when I am worried about my son screaming his head off--or worse, repeating MAMA, MAMA, MAMA, MAMA, MAMA, MAMA as he is more wont to do. So we spent our time looking for paintings of doggies, people with boo-boos, and nuu-nuu people (naked, which my son loves pointing out).
Things were ok for a while, then we went to lunch, and I got up to take him to change his diaper. I lifted him up, and his entire bottom half, including his long shirt, was soaking wet. Like he had sat down in a kiddie pool. I haven't brought extra outfits with me for about a year and a half, because my son hasn't needed them for a long time. So I told D to go to the museum store and pick up a new shirt for him, and try and find some pants too, if they were to be had, and I took A to the aforementioned bathroom and started to change his diaper. The paper towel machine had a sensor to signal more towels to drop down, and of course I was right in front of it. The diaper left a puddle when I set it down, which has never happened in almost 2 years of changing soggy diapers. Then, as I was getting ready to put on the new one, A peed again, all over his sock and shoe, and changing pad, and already-wet countertop. Luckily I was setting off the paper towel machine with every move, so I never had a lack of those. My friend returned with the shorts that D washed, and a cute t-shirt with an artist on it. But the hand dryer just didn't cut it. So A walked around the rest of the day, through Harvard Yard no less, in his diaper and a t-shirt.
Some may say, what's the big deal here? and I am inclined to agree, a little, that my embarrassment is far greater than the situation should allow. Still, I felt like I myself was walking around without pants. And as much as I would like to give strangers the benefit of a doubt, I honestly don't think they would think highly of me if my kid is walking around pantsless, looking ridiculous, while we saunter along without a care. It's just the type of thing you read about in the paper and say, what a dumb woman. I guess I am the dumb one this time.
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