Pregnancy and heat waves go together as well as, say, toddlers and nap time. This is our second week of 100 degree weather here in LA, and I’m about to start stuffing my bra with ice packs.
To deal with the heat the past few days without using the air conditioning too much, I’ve been alternately escaping to the coastal areas with my toddler as well as distracting myself by doing things like having lunch with friends I haven’t seen in a while. Neither turned out well.
Eating With the Enemy
First, lunch with a friend. Pro tip: when you’re pregnant, be sure you have lunch only with friends who have been pregnant themselves, or lived in close proximity with someone who has been pregnant, or have dedicated their lives to researching pregnant women. Do not lunch with anyone else, particularly perfectly fit gay men who never sweat, even if they have been among your closest friends for years now. Case in point:
Me: “Ok, Dan. I’m not super hungry, so you choose where we go.” Mistake #1.
He didn’t even have the courtesy to at least be fat.
We head downtown, park in Pershing Square and get out of the wrong exit, which means we end up having to walk two extra blocks before getting to the hottest restaurant in downtown LA. And by “hot,” I don’t mean trendy-hot, I mean like doing-Bikram-yoga-wearing-a-garbage-bag-hot. Like you just made a pregnant woman walk two blocks in the noontime heat hot. And like no air conditioning hot.
Dan: “This place has the best salads!”
What I say: “You know when I go to Jack in the Box, the person at the drive through window says ‘Hey, it’s you again!’ when she sees me?”
What I think: F* salads!
But whatever. I order the exact same salad he does.
While eating our
food salads, I complain that we’re outside and there’s no air conditioning.
Me: “You know, when you’re pregnant, your basal temperature increases by about 10 degrees.” (Not true, except most definitely true in my case).
Dan: “Well, I don’t know anything about pregnant women.” He looks at my plate. “Other than they eat a lot!”
We ordered. the. exact. same. salads. Ok, so maybe I just ate mine faster.
But Dan is my best friend, and best friends are forgiven for pretty much anything, so we’re having lunch again in a couple of weeks, only this time I’m making him eat hamburgers while wearing a parka on a DTLA rooftop restaurant.
Tropical Shitstorm – not just on the drink menu at Islands Restaurant
Tiny Boss and I went to one of my favorite beaches so I – err, he – can cool off in the perpetually freezing Pacific ocean. He poops at 9am, right before we get there, so being the noob mom that I am, I think, “Great! He’s not going to poop again for hours! Let’s just put him in these awesome Speedo swimming trunks with the built-in diaper.
Maybe it was all the sand he ate, or maybe it was the hash brown I got from Jack In The Box (“Hey! It’s you again!”), but some time between running into the ocean, trying to steal other kids’ sand toys, and ignoring his adorable playdate, he took the mother of all dumps.
I don’t know this though, so I decide to take his wet clothes off in the car, at which time a large piece of poop falls out of his trunks as I was pulling them down. Tiny Boss immediately, and efficiently, stomps on it and grinds it into the seat.
I look into his pants, and discover that it looks like someone’s mashed about half a dozen Reese’s peanut butter cups inside them. But that wasn’t the biggest problem, really. The biggest problem with pooping your pants at the beach (besides pooping your pants at the beach) is not so much the poop, but the sand.
I’m with Anakin on this one.
Sand gets everywhere. It turns your awesome swim trunks with the built in diaper into something akin to a skin-hugging cat litter box, only with not enough litter to neutralize the turds, so you get a nasty combination of poop, sand, and poopy sand clumps. You can’t wipe the poop off because there’s so much sand, and toddler butts and nuts don’t need exfoliation.
Panicked, I throw his pants out the window after wiping his foot off with the clean part. I wasn’t prepared for a poopy diaper, so I can’t find my wipes. I resort to rinsing him off in the parking lot with our water bottle. This doesn’t go over well with Tiny Boss, who wants to continue to watch the iPad in the car and stomp poop, ala Lucille Ball.
Come to think of it, toddlers would make great wine-stompers.
Then Tiny Boss decides he wants to drink the water, but I can’t give it to him because I accidentally touched the bottle opening to his butt crack. This refusal causes even more distress.
So I take this poopy, sandy, crying, naked boy over to the showers. To calm him down, I talk to him while washing him off in the cold water, explaining that he has a poopy butt that we need to wash off. It’s at this time I realize that I’m probably grossing out all the other moms and kids waiting in line for the showers. I avoid eye contact, slink back to my car with Tiny Boss, pick up the no-longer-awesome swim trunks, and drive home.
Tomorrow, I’m just going to turn on the air conditioning.