The poop doesn't stop

This happened on Monday, but I thought this blog could stand to go at least a couple days between poop stories. Rachel wishes I would write about something else, but hey, she has the password too. (I tried to add her to the blog as a separate user, but blogger borked it up twice and when it finally went through it ate her post. Once again she wasn't on the userlist. Brilliant.)

I had gone to run errands with Matthew. On the way back I stopped to pick up Chinese food for dinner. I was placing my order with the takeout lady when Matthew started hopping around and grabbing his butt. "Poop firs! [first] Poop firs!"

I handed the lady a $20, picked up Matthew, and ran for the bathroom. I pulled his pants down to help him on the toilet -- he can get his pants off himself, but in an emergency Dad is faster -- and stopped. I was too late. There had been an explosion.

I tried to ease the pants off without getting poop all over and failed miserably. It was a disaster. A poop meltdown. The Chernobyl of poop.

A couple dozen moistened hand-drying-towels later, Matthew was clean but the pants were not. I seriously considered throwing them out, but my frugal nature prevailed and I wrapped the nastiness in some more hand towels.

The counter lady said there would be a 40 minute wait for the food. When I explained the situation she gave me my $20 back and we headed home with Matthew naked from the waist down in his car seat. (There was another guy at the counter with the air of fatherhood about him. "Forgot your diaper bag, huh," he said. "No; he's supposed to be potty trained," I replied. All bets are off though when your two year old has diarrhea.)

Shortly after arriving home he had to poop again. "This one is yours," I told Rachel.

He didn't quite make it. Fortunately,

• there was less poop in his system
• he did make it to the tiled bathroom area, away from the carpet
• it was already established that this one was Rachel's
  

After that we diapered him for the night.