October 24, 2011

The DMP Strikes Again

Those of you who are parents or who don't mind reading about poo will remember that, in our never-ending quest of nerddom, Jonathan and I have begun referring to our daughters' diaper explosions as the DMP, the Daily Massive Poo. This has become quite the thing around our house, with DMP jokes being delivered at every possible moment. We've enjoyed this new parenting humor immensely, but only this past weekend did we finally find the opportunity to take it to the next level.

Saturday dawned with bright sunshine and the promise of the last weekend of good weather before we're forced to bury ourselves under a smothering layer of parkas and long underwear. We gathered the kids up, drove an hour into the countryside, and found ourselves at a little mom and pop pumpkin patch. Naturally, Nathaniel was beside himself with excitement after being released to play in the outdoors among the PU-INS! and immediately took off to find the best ones. Several hours and several hundred photos later, we had selected the perfect pumpkins for both kids (with final veto power going to the toddler, of course) and stopped at a Subway on our way home for a bite to eat.

It's one of those truths of motherhood- if you're going to have a bathroom-related issue, it always occurs in the location with the largest crowd.

Part of the way through my turkey and cheese sub, Evelyn decided that she wanted to eat so I plopped on the nursing cover, yanked my shirt up with all of the grace of someone who didn't really care if she was half-naked in public, and fed the baby. I slowly noticed a wet sensation on my hand... something that no mother relishes feeling through nice, thick clothes. I pulled Evelyn away from my body and realized that her pants had made the ultimate sacrifice.

Of course, that particular Subway (like it's counterpart in Hinckley, Minnesota) didn't have a changing table so I laid out my trusty old changing pad on the booth and started evaluating the mess. The diaper was long gone, Evelyn's white onesie was mortally wounded, and her little striped overalls were shrieking in pain as the yellow poop dripped down the inside lining. Despite it all, I saved her white socks. Hooray!

As I was stripping my daughter and stuffing her dirty clothes into a plastic Subway bag for the ride home, Jonathan was busy cajoling Nathaniel into eating more than two bites of his sandwich. Under normal circumstances, the toddler has an appetite that puts that of Cookie Monster to shame, but it was the witching hour, frequently known to the rest of the world as overdue naptime, and he was DONE with his sandwich.

In the blink of an eye, Nathaniel grabbed his apple juice (which I feel obligated to point out, is conveniently the same color as urine), and emptied it on Jonathan's crotch. My husband jumped up and immediately began sopping the juice from his pants amidst my peals of laughter.

Our immediate reaction to the image of my husband's pants that looked suspiciously like those lying in a heap in a Subway bag? THE DMP STRIKES AGAIN!

Thank God that I have a husband with a sense of humor.

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