Indian Dinner Fiasco

Last night, we were invited to the home of the parents of Teacup's friend from school. They are Indian and vegetarian. Daddio and I relished the idea of being served a tasty meal and of conversing with adults.

At first, the children played together in the toy-room transformed from a garage. Being kids, they will play anywhere and with anything given the obligatory parental consent.

After appetizers slithered down our throats and filled our swelling bellies, we encouraged the kids to take a break from their amusements to nourish their little bodies. I settled each of my children into their seats and sniffed the air.

Did I smell a horrible sulfur-type odor emanating form my youngest daughter's behind?

As I casually moved my hand toward her rump, I felt the all-knowing warm lump through her clothing. Politely, excusing ourselves to the restroom, I quietly and quickly cleaned my daughter's underwear. Tossing around the various options in my head, I determined that her panties could not be salvaged. Having not brought extra undergarments, Scooter was forced to wear her pink tights, sans panties for the remainder of the evening.

Returning to the kitchen, I discreetly tossed the soiled panties in the garbage compactor. However guarded I tried to be, Teacup loudly asked, "What are you throwing away, mom?"

To which I responded, "Trash, honey. I'm throwing away trash." Noting the raised eyebrows among the rest of the group seated at the dinner table, I added, "And trash isn't polite dinner conversation."

Relieved that the crisis was averted, I triumphantly sat in my chair to enjoy the rest of the evening.

Within minutes, the kids decided they were no longer hungry and wanted to continue playing. To maintain harmony, the parents endorsed their decision and excused them from the table.

Just as the conversation began to roll smoothly among the adults, the host's housekeeper ran into the room announcing, "Your daughter make pee-pee on the floor! Your daughter make pee-pee on the floor!"

Having just taken a bite of my dinner, I looked over my shoulder, praying she wasn't talking to me. When it comes to kids and their problems, why do people always look at the mother? Why couldn't she have run into the room seeking Daddio?

I stumbled out of my chair to follow the trail of urine from the bathroom. At the end of the trail, Scooter stood frozen in the center of a pool of tinkle holding her dress above her waist.

"Holy Shit!" was all I could think. Externally, I smiled and asked for some cleaning products and paper-towels. There was no way to discreetly deal with this potty faux-pas. It was now a public humiliation, mostly for me.

After cleaning Scooter and the hosts' soiled hallway floor, our hostess graciously offered an essential pull-up.

Eventually, the adults returned to the dinner table, encountering cold food and lost appetites. We politely stayed for coffee and dessert. As we bid our new acquaintances good-bye, I wondered if they will accept a return invitation to our home.