Payback's a bitch

I thought parents were supposed to embarrass their children, but last night, Grant turned the tables. Leigh and I went to speak to our hypnobirthing class to talk about our labor experience and to answer questions from the expectant moms and dads. It took place during Grant's fussy time, but I was hellbent on going. After all, the 28-hour all-natural labor was an accomplishment, and I wanted to gloat a little.

Grant had other ideas.

He was a wee bit overtired but generally not too cranky until two minutes before we left. Then all hell broke loose. He started screaming when we put him in the car seat and would NOT take a pacifier. Leigh sat in the backseat trying to calm him while I navigated a route that would keep us in perpetual motion. Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the hypnobirthing teacher's house, fussy baby in hand.

Everyone oohed and aahed over our adorable baby in the car carrier, and we warned them that it was his fussy time - hopefully, he'll stay calm, we said. We left Grant in the car seat as we started to share our birth story.

Then, we heard the sounds.

A few grunts at first. Leigh and I looked at each other, nervously. Then - a wail. Leigh scooped him up and popped a pacifier in his mouth, and blessedly he took it. Leigh cradled Grant in one arm as we went on with our story. But Grant was still pissed. It had now been awhile since he'd eaten. He kept looking at us as if to say, "Why did you shlep me across town to this hippie hypnobirthing drum circle when you could be feeding me?!"

And with that, it was time for our precious bundle to step up the Mommy-Daddy Humiliation Program.

I was in mid-sentence when the pfffft sound of a massive, earth-shattering dump pierced the air. Everyone laughed. Grant, nestled in Leigh's arms, looked smug. "Take that," his expression read, as he unleashed another one. And another one. And then, as if to seal our fate, Grant capped off the series of shits with a blood-curdling scream. The expectant parents looked on in horror. Reality had set in, and their visions of perfect baby bliss were shattered by this pooping, screaming nightmare in front of them.

Leigh swept Grant off to the bathroom to change him, but the cries resonated down the hall, and everyone looked at each other rather awkwardly. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, but the hypnobirthing teacher wouldn't let up. So there I was, answering questions about my perineum and breast engorgement, while my son was screaming in the next room. I spoke louder to be heard over Grant's wails.

After what seemed like an eternity, Leigh returned with Grant, sucking on a pacifier and still reeking of doody. (Leigh later reported that it was the most heinous baby dump he'd ever seen - it splattered up the onesie and oozed onto Grant's new pants and sweater. Leigh cleaned him up the best he could, but yes, we basically left our son sitting in his own shit for the next half-hour).

Now, you'd think an explosive bowel movement would have been an appropriate finale to such an outstanding performance, but Grant wasn't finished. Instead, he unleashed a new barrage of cries, and at this point, I think the whole room (myself and Leigh included) just wanted us to leave. Leigh bounced Grant up and down while keeping a hand strategically placed over the sopping orange doody stain on Grant's brand new pants.

We were supposed to stay for an hour, but we left early. And frankly, I think everyone appreciated it. As soon as we stepped into the apartment, Grant was fine. He got into his PJs and ate dinner without a peep, smiling and laughing as he went off to bed.

Mission accomplished.