As the proud parent of a two-month old infant, I can tell you that there is great joy in having a new baby. With a baby, every smile is from paradise, every laugh from heaven. Even an enormous baby shit can make my day. The things that make me happy sure have changed!

Recently, my wife and I were all geared up for the big drive from DC to Boston to see my family. It was the baby’s first long drive and we were all feeling rather trepidatious about it. We anticipated several tough stops along the route to feed her, change her diaper, and dance around to David Bowie in New Jersey Turnpike truck stop parking lots just to keep her smiling.

And the fear of a “blowout” is always strong. Always.

A blowout, it turns out, is not just something that happens to BP’s rig in the Gulf of Mexico, killing 11 people and causing a world record oil spill. I mean, it is that and that happened and let’s never forget and ideally let’s stop offshore drilling… But a blowout is also when a baby takes such a giant shit that it comes oozing out of their diaper in all directions. A really bad blowout, hereby known as a Macondo, is when the shit gets out of the diaper, up the baby’s back, on all of their clothing and whatever else is nearby.

My baby has only had 3 or 4 Macondos, but she had one right before we got in the car for our trip, at the last possible moment before such a Macondo would have caused potentially irreparable harm to our traveling morale and our car seat.

My immediate reaction to seeing that my baby’s outfit, blanket, and body were all covered in a goopy layer of soft, smelly poop was to pump my fist in the air and say, “Yes, motherfucker!”, because the odds of back-to-back Macondo’s are 100 to 1. Getting it out of the way right before the drive would mean smooth sailing during the baby’s first ever car trip, and that’s exactly what happened.

So yes, I was excited about shit. But not just any shit. I was pumped to the brim about a Macondo-level blowout up the back and all over the place, a mustard-brown paste the likes of which I’ve only known existed for about eight weeks, and which I dutifully cleaned with a smile.

I used to get excited about different stuff. That’s all I’m saying.

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