Nightmare at Chick-Fil-A

Some folks from Henry’s playgroup had gone to a nearby city for a matinee showing of Bee Movie and lunch. I knew that we were not in any way ready to sit through a 90-minute movie, but I had some shopping to do in town and decided to meet the group afterward at a nearby Chick-Fil-A. For a number of reasons, we don’t really do fast food. But I must admit I have a soft spot for the Chick (must be those waffle fries) which we hit three or four times a year.

Henry, who had not yet discovered the joys of the fast food play area, was delighted to discover that this place had a slide inside. I was (barely) able to get him to inhale a few chicken nuggets and smuggled in carrots before he gleefully trotted off for some good clean fun. No sooner had I finished listening to some eye-opening tales from the playgroup ladies about the questionable hygiene of those places when Henry came out into the dining area, smiled and said, “I have poop on my foot.”
Cringe.
“Whose poop is it?” I asked.
“My poop.”
Of course it is. Of course my child is the pooper.

It was, it seemed, the mother of all poops. The poor kid was wearing a diaper, but it was no match for this super blowout. It was all over Henry and in a few seconds all over me, too. The Chick-Fil-A manager arrived looking exactly as a fast food honcho should: a chubby, balding, pasty looking guy with a mustache. “Everybody leave the play area,” he shouted and called for whatever unfortunate person happened to be on clean-up detail.

The ensuing pandemonium brought to mind the Baby Ruth scene from Caddyshack as mothers rushed to retrieve their darlings. Mortified mama passed Coco off to one of the playgroup moms and whisked the offending preschooler to the ladies room, but not before brushing the back of another kid’s shirt with poop from Henry’s foot (please tell me that didn't just happen!). I swear to God I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was on the verge of tears in the bathroom but shook it off. Carried the diaper clad Henry (hello, white trash!) to the car, snuck back into the dining area to grab the little girl and got the hell out of there.

Obviously a not-quite-three-year-old’s bodily functions are nothing to get in a tizzy about, but my insecurities flared right up. Will Henry become a playgroup pariah? Did I handle this properly or have I come across as a flake, terrible mother etc...?

As I slunk away, I made a mental note never to let my kids into one of those bacterial breeding grounds again. But they will undoubtedly find their way back in there at some point. And no doubt, come dinnertime, there would be another crop of kids in the indoor playground at Chick-Fil-A, oblivious to the afternoon’s catastrophe. Sunrise, sunset, life goes on. Just don’t forget the hand sanitizer.