The Mile High Club

For some, membership in the Mile High Club is attained by having hot sex in an airplane.

For me, it meant changing a poopy diaper kneeling down in front of the restroom in the back of an airplane at 20,000 feet.

Our plane was old school - no family bathrooms, no changing tables, no bulkheads large enough for a lie down. So the flight attendants waited until the lavatory was empty and then had me lay down my changing mat in front of the door, adjacent to the emergency exit.

We had a turbulent flight. This meant that while I was wiping up poop my baby was rolling to and fro, off of the mat. Luckily, she thought this was a cool game and I went along with that theory.

I must admit that entry into the original Mile High Club would probably have been racier and sexier. But this Mile High entry was another reminder that we can get through almost anything together.

Clean Up in Aisle 7

Since having a baby I've tried to tell myself that I can still do anything. Everything. Okay, almost everything. My view on this theory changed somewhat last week.

My friend Debbie was in town to meet my daughter. Debbie has a child of her own and never gets to go to the movies. I thought to myself, 'Won't this be fun? A matinee on a Monday afternoon. I'm sure we'll be the only people in the theater. I can bring my baby and she'll sleep through the whole thing - perfect!"

Well, not exactly.

We arrived at the theater to find that about 15 other people had the same idea. I carried the stroller half-way up the stadium seating and we settled in for the show. After 20 minute of previews, the movie finally began. At just this moment I glanced down at my daughter's face to see the Poop Expression. I hoped it was just gas, and I ignored it.

Twenty minutes later when nothing else had happened, I assumed I was out of the woods. I got the brilliant idea to quickly change her diaper in the aisle of the stadium seating (???? I know !!!). I laid out my mat and arranged the wipes and a new diaper. Wasn't I surprised when I took off her pants and found poop all over her legs, her onesie, and her little pink pants. Meanwhile, my vision was obstructed by the dark scenes in the movie and I could only assess the damage intermittently. At this point, my daughter started crying. I picked her up and grabbed the diaper bag, leaving my entire little set up, the stroller and my friend Debbie in Aisle 7, and booking it to the bathroom. Picture me laying my daughter down on the side of the sink of the ladies room in the movies, cleaning her up with paper towels and trying to get a poopy onesie over her head without getting poop in her hair. Does this picture qualify for the cover of Time magazine's mother of the year publication? I think not.

I'm not saying that I'll never go to a movie again. I'm not saying that now that I have a daughter I plan to barricade myself in my house and stop socializing. But I am saying that that was the last diaper change for us in Aisle 7.