Ricka turned twenty-one yesterday. Memories of her babyhood and beyond blasted me. “The days are long, but the years are short,” people like to say when littles are little. Enjoy this story from one of those long days many summers ago.
*****
Twenty years ago, when episodes of Veggie Tales, sippy cups of apple juice, orchestrated naps, and jaunts to the park defined our days, I shook up the summer schedule and planned a visit to Grammy and Grandpa’s house. Back then, we only had Flicka and Ricka, and they were both in diapers, but Husband would join me on the trip this time. The thought of his help smoothed tension from my neck.
The day of our departure, we buckled the babies into their car seats and set out on the six-hour trek to northern Minnesota. But only three hours in, the girls started fussing.
“I think they’re getting tired of sitting,” I said.
Husband adjusted the radio and wrinkled his nose. “Smells like someone needs a new diaper.”
I glanced into the back and sniffed. “I think you’re right. Let’s stop soon.”
The car gobbled up the miles as we scanned the landscape for a rest stop. The stench increased, and the girls’ squawks became strident. I reached back to play with their toes, but when Ricka pumped her legs, I saw something dark seep from her diaper.
I gasped and snapped my focus to Husband. “You’ve gotta pull over right now.”
He shot me a look. “Why?”
“Apparently she’s not feeling well.” I described the scene.
He flipped on the blinker and swerved onto an exit for Fergus Falls. After surveying our options just off the ramp, he careened into the Walmart parking lot.
As soon as Husband threw the vehicle into park, I bailed and yanked open the back door on Ricka’s side. He turned off the ignition, hopped out, and opened the other door to check on Flicka. I unclasped Ricka and lifted her out, holding her at arm’s length. Her car seat was a soupy mess.
“Uh-oh.” The sight triggered my gag reflex. “I’m gonna need some help.”
Husband peeked into Flicka’s diaper. “Whoa. Same thing here.” He unbuckled her, his face contorting. “It’s bad.”
As he pulled her out, sickness poured from her diaper too.
Frantic, I darted a look around the car, taking inventory. An old bath towel, some wet wipes, a battered roll of paper towels shoved under a seat—a pittance when what we really needed was a bathtub. Or a garden hose.
“Where to start?” I looked from the car seats to the girls—and back again.
Husband bunched his lips to one side. “Let’s lay them on the ground and clean them up.”
“Okay.”
With Ricka in one arm, I tossed the diaper bag onto the pavement. I flopped the towel onto the parking lot’s asphalt. With only a few cars parked nearby, at least we wouldn’t perform for a big audience. But daylight flirted with the encroaching darkness; we would need to make quick work of it all by dusk.
I set Ricka on the towel, and Husband planted Flicka next to her. The girls tried to squirm away. I noticed Husband’s shirt, smeared from the rescue effort, and I gagged again.
“Come on.” He cocked his head and skewered me with a look. “Pull it together.”
I coughed and bit my lip. “I’m trying.”
I flipped open the lid of wet wipes and jerked out a string of seven. Was that all we had left? I let out a bitter laugh; our battle appeared as fruitful as sopping up a lake with a Kleenex.
Husband shifted into commander mode. “You go in and buy more wipes. I’ll try to keep these two from rolling around in it. Go.”
I nodded and jumped to my feet. Stumbling into the store, I forced myself to think about the Twinkies on display inside the front door—or anything else, really—instead of the hopeless filth I had just deserted. I drew a deep breath, jogged to the baby department, scooped up a load of baby wipes and hand sanitizer, and hurtled through the checkout line, tossing my debit card at the cashier.
Back outside in the fading day, Husband and I hurried to wipe down the girls. I rifled through their bags for clean clothes and new diapers in a race against time and muck.
An older woman approached. Her face twisted into a smile, and she snorted. “Been there, done that,” she said as she clipped by us. I heard one more chuckle before she disappeared inside the store.
Husband and I looked at each other. He shook his head.
“Real nice, lady,” I muttered, “real nice.”
At last, we climbed back into the car and chugged onward. Hours passed, the little ones snoozed, and the long miles eased away our parking lot trauma.
As soon as we arrived at our destination, I made a beeline for the laundry room. Husband followed me, and together—in the bag of yuck—we found what we had been missing earlier. There, wadded up in the soiled laundry, were our senses of humor. A little rumpled maybe, but good enough to get us through.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.