There's a SHITSTORM a brewin'!

As promised, here is the back story to a phrase now permanent in our house hold.  If you happen to hear my 2 yr. old or eventually my 1 yr. old mention this phrase, you will know where it came from and just how bad things are at that point.  Get your Depends ready...

It is a brisk, Tuesday evening in late-March.  The blossoms on the trees are beginning to show their colors, there is an aroma of spring in the air, and excitement is brewing inside me as I venture out for my first bikini shopping experience since shedding baby weight. 

In previous years, the task of swimsuit shopping has brought about feelings of nausea, slight twitching as the horror of the experience draws closer and constant avoidance of bright lights.  It represents the dawning of the zombies in some ways.  My dead, lifeless body presented in front of a full-length mirror that would make Heidi Klum look... well... like a normal person.  I hated swimsuit shopping with every cell in my body.

This year, though, I am slightly excited to try on this new perspective.  Endorphins have been searing through my body at top speed, giving me a false sense of being, making me feel like... Heidi Klum.  I can do this!  I look good!  The reality, you look OK - better than you have in the past, but no, Heidi Klum has not taken up residence under your skin. 

Enter Kohl's.  In Nampa.  I mention Nampa because anyone who knows of this town knows of the permeating odor that settles in the air - constantly.  It gets in your hair follicles, your pores, your taste buds.  Sort of the way bacon does when you cook it.  You can't get rid of that smell unless you take a shower, brush your teeth and wash your clothes.  Even then, you get random whiffs of it if you turn your head too quickly.  Knowing this is imperative to your knowledge of my handling of the coming situation.  It was not classy, nor cleanly nor polite.  But that's Nampa.  **I say this, not intending to insult my friends and family who reside in the 2C, but you know the stereotype I am referring to and that is the stereotype present in this story.**

Bikini shopping.  In Nampa.  On a Tuesday night.  With two babies.  <-------- this little part is the kicker.  Bikini shopping by yourself is tricky enough.  Many a girl has spent hours focused on this task, only to come up empty-handed.  But throw in two children under the age of three and less than one hour to shop, you've got yourself a challenge worthy of a Japanese game show. 

Ready. Set. Go!

-- Enter Kohl's department store.  Quickly grab a cart that is the uber-sly disguise for a "crazy child containment device".  Strap kids down... extra tight.  These buggers CAN'T get out.  I don't have the time (or the carb-load) to chase either of them up and down the aisles and into the men's jeans rack for an impromptu game of "hide and seek".

-- Excuse me (I say to the first cashier I see), can you tell me where the swimsuits are?  She points to the right side of the store and before she can say another word, I am off. 

-- Scramble, search, ugh, no way, I am not a grandma and even if I was hell no, good god, hello porn star, shit!  Where are all the "no I am not a Mormon, but still a modestly sexy mom" swimsuits?  Non-existent apparently.  Well, this is okay.  Maybe I will try it.  I have never worn that color before.  OK.  That could be cute.  Great.  Three suits to try on.  Let's go!

-- Bust into the fitting rooms, shopping cart and all.  Take out two-year-old since she will be climbing the walls otherwise.  Strip down faster than than a Madonna back-up dancer at the Super Bowl.  First suit - big sigh.  I cannot wear that color!  Second suit - big sigh.  My boobs are waaaay to big for that top.  Third suit.  Doable.  Done!  I don't have time to lolly-gag.  Buy it, lets go!  Throw suit into cart, grab two year old from hanging on the door, make my way to the front of the store.

This is where the fun begins.

As I get to the check out, the wind from my "hustle" blew a very distinct odor up my nostrils.  An odor very familiar to any parent.  An odor known as "the blowout".  Normally, the blowout is heard looooong before it is smelled but my quick changing reflexes were speedier than sound and must have deflected the previous noise indicator from ever reaching my ear drums.  Big mistake.  HUGE.

As I park the cart in front of the cashier, I toss the swimsuit on the counter.  I know what waits for me.  This boy, this stinky little boy, is a poop machine and I know for certain I am in for a wiping session when we get to the car.  Great.  But that is not the story.  No.  That would be any normal day for us out shopping.  It gets better.

I reach for my purse (because I have my 10% coupon!) and what to my eyes find?  Shit.  Dripping from the cart seat where the sweet, innocent little baby boy was perched!  I follow the trail north to the scene of the incident only to find more shit exploding from out the top of his diaper, up his back, almost to his neck.  It is oozing from behind his shirt, onto the seat back.  And what lay beneath all this loveliness??? My purse.  My $75 zebra print, "Mary Poppins" - I - bought - it - at - a - purse - party - and - have - never - seen - another - and - cannot - replace purse.  My life is in that purse!  That shit-covered mound has EVERYTHING inside it!!

I open my purse with the very tippy-top ends of my pointer fingers, praying with every cell in my being that this mess was only contained to the outside.

I would not be so lucky.

Remember that 10% off coupon??  Covered.  The cashier was happy to punch in the code as I deciphered it through the mustardy-brown haze.

What about my wallet?? Oh, thank God.  It is clean... on the inside.  I paid for my purchase as fast as I could and rounded up the children with the knowledge that I will forever be known as the "poop-payer".  Forget it.  Its Nampa.  There's been worse things here.  Just get to the car so you can clean this shit up!

As we leave in a fury to get out to our soon-to-be-filled parfume de Shite minivan, I see Maia rushing ahead of me, grabbing her pants.  She screams, just as we get to the automatic doors,
"Momma........... I............. have........... dia...........rrhea!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" 
As she walks, I can see two liquid, brown trails running down the sides of her legs from underneath her dress.

Welcome to the SHITSTORM. 

In the midst of a natural disaster such as this, you might find that you lose consciousness temporarily due to lack of oxygen to the brain.  You may in fact shout out profanities to your children as a result of the lost consciousness, later to be dangled in front of your face by your spouse, reminding you of what quality parenting skills you behold. Not to worry.  Shitstorms, though incredibly toxic and materially damaging are quick to pass and can easily be rectified with a shopping cart full of wet wipes.

Apparently, during my shitstorm, I yelled out about this very disaster and my beautiful, spunky two-year-old picked up on the phrase immediately.  After stripping everyone down, wiping for what felt like days, sorting through the necessary items of my poop-filled purse, I made a decision.  I had to say good-bye to that gorgeous zebra-print purse.  It was like losing a friend.  A worthless, poop-covered friend who was not worth the clean-up.  I shoved anything else not worth saving (including all the children's clothing) into the purse along with the 20 lbs. of nasty-covered wet wipes and found the nearest dumpster.

As for the shopping cart........... well................... it's Nampa................... There's been worse things here.

**The kicker was the following week I received a text from the hubs at school.  Apparently lil' boy had another blow-out.  As Maia watched the mess getting cleaned, she cried out, "Dad, we got 'nother SHITSTORM!"

Quality parenting, right there.  I am proud.