Today, on the way home from the cardiologist's office, Peeper started squawking about fifteen minutes from home.
(Or five minutes? Or thirty? Who knows? It seemed like hours.)
As Shrike performed the Glowworm / rattle / please-Baby-please-
shut-up-be-happy song and dance in the backseat, and I barreled drove as quickly as I safely could down the Interstate, we discussed possible causes for her distress.
(Also known as, the "What the fuck is her problem?!" conversation. Not the first time we've had it. I'm sure it won't be the last.)
Shrike brought up the fact that she'd pitched a similar fit in the car last night, while we were out picking up Taco Bell (Yes. Picking up Taco Bell. With the baby. At damn near midnight. You got a problem with that, June Cleaver?) and I said, "Yeah, she got a little happier when we took her out of the carseat while we were eating (in the parking lot - the plan was for her to nurse, since she was being so pissy, but she wasn't interested) but started up again when we put her back in, so I think she was just mad about the carseat."
When we got home, I changed her diaper, as is our routine and - Hello! Poopy pants!
Cue flashback music and effects . . .
Cut our car, in the Taco Bell parking lot last night . . .
Cue ominous music . . .
Whozat: Do you think we ought to check her diaper?
Shrike: Nah, she's fine.
Cut to the changing table at home, after the trip to Taco Bell . . .
Whozat: Let the record show, that I was the one who said to check her pants!End flashback, return to changing table this afternoon . . . .
Whozat: Doh!So, we've now decided that anytime she suddenly starts squawking in the car for no apparent reason, we will find the nearest safe and convenient place to pull off the road and investigate the diaper situation.
Live and learn, Mommy and Mama.
Live. And. Learn.