Pat and Brie Plus 3: Everybody Poops...Just Not In Their Van

This blog post is brought to you by the letter V....as in 'violated.' Could I use it in a sentence? Sure.

"My husband violated my trust by relaying the below story to a room full of people this past weekend thus ensuring two things: 1) I wanted to violate his face off and 2) until further notice, Pat can violate himself in the shower."

WARNING: if bathroom humor/issues are not your thing, walk away.

WARNING: I am SERIOUS. If I receive one email about how gross & horrible I am, I will pay your vehicle a visit. And trust me, after reading what's below - YOU DO NOT WANT THAT TO HAPPEN. You have been warned.

Motherhood has brought me some amazing revelations: I never knew I was capable of loving little drunk midgets so mightily, I am more patient than I ever thought possible, eating PlayDoh, dog food & nickels will not kill you and......carrying people around in your uterus - even small ones - really fucks up your innards.

Some of you have seen my minivan. It is littered with car seats. This is obviously because I am carting around no less than 72 babes daily. Drop offs & pick ups are the bane of my existence at this point. I am, however, prepared because I play the "What If....?" game. What if Sawyer rips the knees out of his pants? What if Dylan & I are stuck in traffic and it's dinnertime? I always have extra snacks, water, diapers, wipes & clothes on hand. Bitch, I am READY.

One scenario that did not make the "What If...?" list: what if Mama's pregnancy-destroyed insides start acting up and there is a van full of kids? Really should've seen that one coming.

THREE YEARS AGO.....

Dylan was in preschool and Sawyer was still at an in-home daycare thus my two morning drop offs were always a clusterfuck of "WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES? We are NOT bringing the Schibbies to school!", etc. I would guzzle coffee, throw the boys in the van and tear down Route 7....every, single day.

I had successfully dropped off Dylan one morning and was in the process of delivering Sawyer when my body said, "oh girl, things are about to get fuckin' crazy up in here!" Bent over, tears running down my face and the soundtrack to Pocohontas blaring in the backseat, I realized I was not going to make it to the nearest bathroom (which, let's note, was not in my own home but would have to have been a chain restaurant or a church - yes, I've done that).

I swerved the van in to a parking lot still unsure of what was about to happen. In the beginning, I think my plan was to go in to a diaper. And NO PEOPLE, this was not something I thought was OK or NORMAL or NO BIG DEAL. I'm crying, cramping & thinking of calling my lawyer friends to see if going 'big pottys' (as we call it at our house) in your own vehicle is illegal. Then I see it......a plastic bag that we have stored for "What If.....?" Scenario Number 16: What if a child shits up the back and we need to toss clothes somewhere? This brave plastic bag would now serve a higher purpose.

I'm not going to go in to details here, guys. But here is what I WILL tell you: this is happening - motherfucker, THIS IS HAPPENING - and I'm in the back of my van while my almost two year old son is in his car seat saying the following: "No Mama....no caca. NO MAMA NO. Seesaw no caca. MAMA CACA. Ewwwwwwww. SMELL. SMELL. NO CACA, MAMA!"

I still have yet to work out who is more scarred from this event: me, Sawyer or the Transformer that was in the back seat with me. Sorry, Optimus Prime. I salute you for maintaining eye contact with me and never flinching.

Once this task was accomplished and I began mentally setting aside cash for Sawyer's therapy, I - being efficient & fastidious - wrapped everything up really tight.......and threw it in to the woods while I prayed, "don't let someone find that and decide to run DNA on it."

I would like to say that was the end of that. Sadly, no. One bout of shameful van shitting was not enough to slam my colon closed during drives. It has happened once or twice since the first time. And again, this is not something that I PLAN or RELISH. But when it's pouring down rain, you have two or three sick kids in a car and your ass is screaming, "Chipotle wants to say hi again!" you do what you need to do, OK?

The below happened on Saturday night. My beloved, my partner, my husband got drunk and started running his mouthhole about my butthole. My 'friends' (this is still being debated) found my intestinal issues to be hilarious instead of recognizing that I need to be tested for colitis or an uncloseable colon. One of these so-called friends tucked a plastic bag in to my jeans. Whatever, dicks. I said "hello, old friend. Stick around. I'm going to put you in my van for later use."