Two Sundays ago I was bouncing a five month old baby girl on my lap while Amanda, the other nursery worker, corralled the older toddlers. Without warning I heard Amanda’s voice stairstepping over her no, no, nooo, nooOOO, nOOOOO, NOOOOO’s and looked over to see two year old Layla awkwardly straddling the window of the child-sized plastic house. Her left leg was angled strangely outward, probably all the better for her urine to come splashing down the side of the house and onto the linoleum floor.
This is not the first time a child has peed on the nursery room floor, but it is certainly the first time a child has peed on the nursery room floor with such flair.
So I picked the cuddly baby off my lap and started to place her on the floor when I realized my right leg was uncomfortably warm. And wet. In the midst of all the chaos my first thought was not “Fucking hell, I’ve been pissed on by a diaper-clad baby” but rather “Holy cupcakes, this baby drools a lot.” I can’t tell you what happened to my common sense but I have the distinct impression that it packed up and left for The Netherlands where it smoked some really good hash and laughed uproariously when I doubled over to squish my nose against my thigh because goddamn, that seriously cannot be urine on my leg, let’s smell it just to be sure.
Obviously it was urine. Grade A Baby Piss. And instead of helping Amanda throw two rolls of paper towels at the yellow moat around the playhouse, I stripped off my pants and threw them in the sink, where I had a minute to contemplate a) my pants-less state and b) how a fifteen pound baby managed to unleash the Nile on my leg. Thankfully I had on a mid-thigh length tunic that could have doubled as a dress if I had done a better job of shaving my legs that morning and if I was into wearing mini-dresses, which I didn’t and I’m not. But the urine overflow was another story.
Upon stripping down the cherub-faced infant I noticed her bloomers were soaked through, not surprising, and that she was wearing a pull-up, moderately surprising. Specifically, a pull-up made for a thirty-six month boy. Later, when her parents came to pick her up and I told them that their baby had peed straight through her PULL-UP and PULL-UPS were not for BABIES and to please refrain from dressing your still-on-the-breastmilk baby with a [insert mental cursing] PULL-UP, they just laughed. Said how hilarious it had been when their older son had wanted to dress his sister in one of his, wait for it, PULL-UPS. And I’m sure it’s no big deal to them, I’m sure they get pissed on all the time with their real-live version of Wanda fucking Wetsherself but I did not squirt this thing from my vagina and therefore I am less inclined to slather myself in its excrement.
At the end of the day we had sanitized the linoleum and the plastic house and my pants got a good soaking in a mix of antibacterial hand soap and Lysol. As an added bonus, I got to walk past an entire congregation of churchgoers in one half of the outfit they’d seen me arrive in.
And here’s an added bonus for you, but seriously, take heed. It makes you cry a little on the inside as you pee a little on the outside. (Only NSFWish if your boss doesn't have a sense of humor.)