So here we were in Mestre, my husband, myself and my two little ones setting out on the open road after renting a sporty little Fiat at EuropCar.  The day seemed filled with promise as we embarked on our roadtrip through the Italian Alps. 

I rode shotgun, sprawling maps across my legs and tending to my tiny backseat passengers with the precision of the best surgeon - I passed granola bars without crumbling, I located dropped toys without delay and I even managed to stretch and hold a plastic bag for my somewhat carsick toddler without missing a beat.  Nope, nothing was going to spoil this trip or incur extra costs on this rental.

 As we passed toll after toll and wound our way into curves and twists akin to a corkscrew, we finally arrived at our destination, a lovely flat with a splendid view of the foothills.  I looked back only to find my two little passengers awakening from a short but much-needed afternoon nap. “We made it” I announced with endless enthusiasm, hoping to stir up some energy within them.  Even in their sleepy state, they managed to cooperate.  My toddler daughter patiently waited in her carseat as my husband unloaded the car and my 7 month old son squirmed and squawked only somewhat as I gathered the diaper bag. 

I headed around the back door to free my little son, only to realize that he had, for lack of a better word, pooped his pants.  No problem I thought, I’ll change him here in the car on the driver’s seat while my husband continues to carry our bags inside.  Again, my daughter sat patiently and called out the play-by-play.  “Mama, you changing baby’s diapers?  He did a poopy?”  “Yes,” I called back.  I removed his diaper, wiped him off, and rummaged through my bag for a fresh one. BIG MISTAKE!  In that one little nano-second, my son managed to projectile poop another few rounds straight out onto the seat and down into the crevice between the seat, and stick shift.  There was poop everywhere, crushed into the upholestry and carpet.  OMG! I squealed.  “What Mama?, What?,” my toddler shouted. Without thinking I said “ Arrrggghhh he shit all over the car!  The baby shit all over the damn car!!!”  As I pulled frantically at every last sheet of wipes in my carrying box, I began to wipe and pluck the offending waste from the car.  No matter what I did, it wasn’t going away and the odour only seemed to magnify in the heat of the late June sun.

My husband finally made a reappearance to see why I hadn’t come up to the apartment, only to find me tossing dirty wipes into a pile outside the car and throwing my arms up in defeat.  How much was this damn thing going to cost us to get cleaned?  Were we cursed to be the car in that Seinfeld episode?  You know the one where the odour never went away no matter how often it was shampooed?  ”What the heck is going on,” my husband asked?   Without missing a beat, my three year old piped in and said, ” The baby shit all over the car. He shit everywhere Papa!”  Even in all of my frustration, my husband and I looked up at each other and began to laugh.  We laughed till we cried.  My daughter wasn’t quite sure what was so funny but she laughed along too.  I knew it was wrong for her to be saying what she was saying, but at that very moment, it was exactly what we needed.  A good laugh to remind us that you know what?  Shit happens!  Now if only the story ended there, but it didn’t… 

Instead, my daughter felt the need to repeat this little story with complete curse word accuracy to everyone we met, to every family member we phoned home to and to us, over and over again. 

While we still laugh about the story even now that we’re home, we’re also quick to remind ourselves that the tiny company we keep has sensitive spongelike ears, so it’s best to turn our tongue before blurting things out.  Always remember, the audience is listening…  Oh and if you happen to find yourself in Italy sometime soon, beware of the silver Fiat.  You never know, it might just be the one…  You have been warned!

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