Free Your Perfect Life by Liz Fenton

what the hell Rachel’s been saying about me when I smell something foul. I look over at Charlotte, who has a very serious look on her face. Like she’s trying to come up with the answer to something really complicated, like how to solve global warming or understand why Paris Hilton is still considered a celebrity.
    “Oh, someone’s got poopy face!” Hilary sings in a high-pitched voice.
    There’s a face?
    I pick up Charlotte carefully and quickly realize that this is not any ordinary poop. It’s like a nuclear explosion that seeped all over the Burberry outfit I bought for her a few months back and fished out of the back of her closet this morning.
    “Oh, shit!” I shout.
    “Rachel!” Hilary cries out and covers her baby’s ears. “Language!”
    “Sorry,” I stammer as I frantically dig through the diaper bag to find the wipes. I pull them out and lay Charlotte on the quilt quickly, remembering too late that I should’ve put a changing pad down first. As I pull her pants off, poop spills out onto Hilary’s blanket and Charlotte’s poopy face has turned into a full-fledged grin. I smile, remembering Rachel’s warning that I’d better not let anyone see me sweat when it came to handling a number-two situation. Especially not a mom friend.
    Hilary moves her things away, afraid of what might happen when I open the diaper. You’re not the only one who’s afraid, sister.
    Ten disgusting minutes and a whole package of wipes later,I’ve got the problem under control. But now I understood why Rachel was so insistent that I pack an extra set of clothes. Too bad I didn’t listen.
    After giving Hilary an awkward apology for getting poop on her blanket, blaming my amateur diaper-changing skills on a sleepless night, I grab Charlotte, clad only in a diaper, and make the walk of shame back to Rachel’s house, the $250 Burberry outfit I bought for her now lying in the bottom of a park trash can.
    “Stop laughing!” I beg Rachel later as I tell her the story. We’ve locked ourselves in the den with Charlotte, going over every detail of each other’s day. Thankfully, she brought take-out with her for dinner and saved everyone from my cooking. I think the kids were wondering why their Aunt Casey had A) been thoughtful enough to bring dinner and B) seemed so incredibly overjoyed to see them. It was the first time we’d all been together in many months, and given our old switcheroo, I’d say it was awkward at best.
    • • •
    “Mom, can you pass the pasta?” Sophie asked me.
    Rachel sprang out of her seat to grab it and I gave her a look and took it myself. “Here you go,” I said as I set it in front of her.
    “Make sure you have some vegetables with that,” Rachel added. Everyone at the table looked at her like she had two heads.
    “Aunt Casey, since when do you care what we eat?” Audrey laughed.
    “Yes, Aunt Casey,” I said pointedly. “I’m perfectly capable of making sure the kids eat properly.”
    “Sorry,” she said and poked her fork around her plate. “Just trying to help.”
    “You can help by giving us all the latest scoop on Ryan McKnight!” Sophie chimed in. “Was he really cheating with that hooker in the hot tub?”
    “Sophie!” Rachel and I scolded her in unison. I gave her another look. Let me handle this. I can do it. Just trust me.
    “That’s inappropriate dinner conversation,” I said to Sophie.
    “Whatever.” She rolled her eyes at me and pushed her plate away.
    I could feel Rachel’s eyes burning into the side of my head. She wanted me to do something. But what? Did people still send kids to their room? I was trying to decide what to do when John interrupted me. “You are not allowed to talk to your mother that way. Hand over your cell phone for the night.”
    “Dad! That is so unfair!” Sophie screamed as she got up from the table, grabbed her cell phone out of her backpack, and slammed it onto the table before running upstairs to her room and slamming the