Yesterday, on the way home from a swings play-date at Oz Park, after sundaes at DQ, I took the wrong bus. It did not hit me till I was far from my intended route. Harper had been fussy in her stroller, so I had put her in her sling, where she was blissfully sleeping. I managed to re-route us, transfer swiftly to another bus, and not wake her up with the commotion or few rain drops from an oncoming storm.
Huge sigh of relief.
So a presumably homeless man on the bus asks me if I know where the Grace stop is. I tell him, and he tells me how sweet I am. He then asks one too many questions about which stop I get off at. At this point I smell poo. The bus’s air conditioning is out. It is in the high 80s, and although they have been predicting thunderstorms, the humidity is almost more moist than the drizzle. The bus begins to thicken with humid hot poo smell. And for the first time, I am thinking, ‘Is that poo smell mine, or the homeless man’s?’
When we got home, and I pulled the sleeping baby from her sling, there it was. Her pooy diaper, oh so full. Poor homeless man, he was probably just trying to make me feel better. As if to say, ‘I know how it is to be the stinky one. It is o.k.’