There are several reason why I am not a runner:
1. Running is horrible
2. I live in Wisconsin where is it very cold and crappy for long periods of time (aka seasons)
3. I have big boobs
4. Ain't nobody got time for that
5. Running is horrible
However, I am a very supportive friend and when my girl KayKay ran her first half marathon ever in life a few weeks ago, despite the 40 degree "spring" weather, KayKay's husband Uncle Banjo, Hubs, Bubs, and I went to cheer her on.
We got to the starting line and showed her the sign we made, gave her hugs and said things like "You go girl!" And she was off. Her goal time was 2.5 hours. Of running. Two and half HOURS OF RUNNING. I don't understand... but I digress. What I'm getting at is that we had 2+ hours to kill. So we walked to a coffee shop and back, with Bubs all cozy in his stoller snoozing the morning away. As we got back to the finish line, about a half hour early (I can't even walk for 2.5 hours), I, being the experienced and amazing mother that I am, thought: "Perfect! I can feed and change Bubs and be ready to greet KayKay at the finish line! He'll be rested, fed, dry and in a great mood for brunch!" So I send Hubs and Uncle Banjo off to the finish line to wait. "I'll be there in 15-20."
Yeah, famous last words. I get in the backseat of our car, sniff Bubs' butt. Nothing too stanky, so I opt to feed him first. He's a little groggy from his 2 hour nap in the stoller, but boy loves to eat. He's not taking her though. I tickle his nose with my nip. Still nothing. All of a sudden, I hear a tuba in the car. What the hell?
Then I smell it. That wasn't a tuba, that's was your anus. HOOO-WEEEE that shit is nasty. Then I feel it. Captain Leakage is at it again. All up his back, down the sides, we're talking ex-plo-sion. But hey, I'm a pro, and have everything I need to TCB. Granted, I'm in half of a backseat of a Mazda Protege, so it's not my smoothest work, but I'm on it. Get the poopy outfit off, go through about 1000 wipes, wham bam thank you ma'am.
Y'all know where this is going. Literally, as I'm doing the final courtesy wipe before closing up shop, right as my wipe-encased finger is over the blow-hole... SQUIRT. Diarrhea everywhere. Picture trying to stop a hose with your thumb. Exept it's an anus and poop and your hand and your car and your shirt and your coat and your baby's coat and the roof of the car and the windows and the carseat.
Diarrhea Car is in full effect. As is Diarrhea Katie, because my hand is still at his anus, in the midst of a wipe. What can I do but leave it there, letting the poop run down my fingers and pool into the palm of my hand? It was mega nasty.
But shit happens (pun intended), so I deal with it. Clean him up again. I've already used his spare outfit, so no new clean clothes, but in round two he was only wearing a shirt, so we were ok there. Use about 4000 wipes cleaning up Diarrhea Car and Diarrhea Katie. And then there's my sweet, Diarrhea Baby. I scoop him up for a big yet gentle squeeze and a thousand kisses. As I lean his head back to face me, I say: "My poor boy! You're not feeling good, huh?" And my perfect angel smiles at me and barfs right down my shirt. Three times.
I hate running. And I always will.