I have loved Tessa from the the moment I knew of her existence, but the lovin’ wasn’t proven until she was about 3 months old.

My husband Rob had a conference in Costa Rica one summer, and I didn’t want to miss the chance to travel with him. So we recruited two babysitters — the kind who buy their own airline tickets and hotel room — a.k.a “parents.” Mine.

Three-month-old babies have a surprising amount of stuff. Clothing, diapers, wipes, and (in our case) formula, bottles, washing paraphernalia and drool cloths. One of the bulkiest things a baby
needs is a bath.

I envisioned getting on the plane with all her stuff and my stuff and a car seat and a stroller, and it was easy to decide we could do without the bath. I’d just have her take a bath with me.

Our hotel room had a beautiful deck bath. Deep but not long or wide. I filled it up (it took awhile because of the volume) and got in with Tessa. We played and burbled for awhile, happy in our liquid cocoon.

If you’ve read some of my other posts, you might know what’s coming. Go ahead. Try to look away.

Somewhere during Rubber Ducky (who makes bath time lots of fun) Tessa got that look on her face. The one where her mouth turns into a downward arc which is not a frown. The one that shows exertion.

I couldn’t get us out of the bath quickly enough without putting us both at risk. I yelled for Rob, for my mom, for anyone sitting in the next room.

At best (I’m thinking) the product of her efforts will be discrete. Contained. Easily removable. Pleasegod, pleasegod, pleasegod.

But noooooooo.

Within seconds, I am sitting in a vat of poop soup. Baby Tessa has the squirts.

What could I do?

My mom comes in, and quickly assesses what has happened. She grabs Tessa from me, and I open the drain.

Mom works at the sink to clean up Tessa, who is squealing happily at the crap storm she has unleashed. I wait in the tub as the soup recedes, shivering and wanting desperately to get clean. It takes forever because of the sheer volume of water, and for the, um, is viscosity the right word?

While trying to decide the best way out of this mess, Mom and I start to laugh hysterically. Tessa gets in on our giggles as well. (I just HOPE she was laughing WITH me and not AT me. But I’m not sure.)

Mom and I share a moment of knowing. I feel like I did the day I bridged from Brownies to Girl Scouts. See, I didn’t cross the bridge into Motherhood via the usual route: pregnancy, labor, childbirth. There was never a defining moment where I felt accepted into the sisterhood of mothers.

Until Costa Rica, where I most definitely earned my badge.

Suffice to say that we eventually got ourselves and the bathroom squeaky clean. (Can I just say once again how much I love my mom?)

Tessa loves this story. I wonder if she’ll feel the same in a few years when she’s all dressed up for prom and waiting on her tuxedo’ed date?

How did you earn your mom badge?