Some where in the Frigid Northeast of The United States of America, there is an infant shivering in the cold. Like 5 degree temperature Fahrenheit, folks.
No, no, not in a manger with shepherds and brilliant guiding stars, and angels singing on high from above, but on a sidewalk in a small town in the U.S. North with approximately one-half of the local citizenry as witnesses. And canned, recorded, old Christmas music blaring over the local emergency broadcast system.
Mama and Dada brought their precious child to his first small town Christmas parade.
You know the parades where every fire company in a 50 mile radius cleans and decorates their majestic fire trucks. Rescue trucks too. Candy is thrown to the excited children. Tractor stores, Tree Trimming companies, Septic Cleaning companies, High School hockey teams, Veteran’s groups, Honor Guards, Local Churches, the Sheriff, the Local Police, EMS in the parade – it really is great to watch all of the small town camaraderie. Lots of back slapping and reminiscing and laughter. Other than freezing toes, I was really in to this small town expression of brotherly love.
Then, someone smelled a Poopy diaper, or maybe a bad ass fart. Ah, poor baby got passed off to Mama to investigate and remedy the situation on the spot. So sad for baby.
Shivering in the cold.
Meanwhile, Baby Boomer Mom is slowly backing up into me. “We need to move further down,” she says. OK, so we do. Away from small baby. And I’m thinking, “Wow, the smell.”
At a safe distance half way down the block, I notice Mom sneaking peeks at the family scene we just left behind. “Damn,” she says. “Those beans flat tore me up. We just really needed to get out of there before they opened up the diaper.”
My mom. Please, if there is a God in Heaven, forgive her.