It was a Poop Explosion. Everybody was partying.

This is both the title and chorus to my own original score to most diaper changes that involve poop.

It must be sung in the manner of a classic rock song.

I've found it a good distraction from whatever contained diaper explosion I'm cleaning up.

This song took on an entirely new meaning the past weekend. We made our second annual trip out to Fortland. A little better packed and planned the second time around, we made it over in the early morning on Saturday. The kids were tired from the busy morning of hauling and boating, and seemed ready for a nap. My partner had proudly put up our tent, complete with interior sleeping bags, mats and travel cribs for the littles.

Excited by the prospect of reading stories in their beds, my kids rushed into what we anticipated to be an easy and relaxing nap. The adults would get a chance to catch up and settle in with the crew that was already on island, while our little cherubs slept in their cozy accommodations.

We enjoyed the undertone of giggles as we sat on the grassy hill close by chatting with friends both new and old. After about 30 minutes, we heard a cry. My partner went to check it out. He promptly exited the tent to call out: "UH, we have a situation. I need you." I walked briskly over, seeing the look of shock and concern on his face. There wasn't any real crying happening anymore, so I wasn't quite sure the extent of the emergency that required both parents.

As you may have ascertained by the title on this one, it was the real deal this time. A true, poop explosion.

My kids, naked, were being handled by my partner, who had pulled them out of the tent and was wiping them down with wet wipes while attempting to get them to stop touching themselves, each other, and anything else they could get their hands on.

Zipped into the tent, I was handling the interior situation. My kids had removed their pants, removed their clean, dry diapers, to squat and defecate on the floor of our tent. They had proceeded to step in and smear their feces all over anything they could find: their blankets, my sleeping bag, the hanging divider, my husbands sweater, and mostly all over the floor of our tent.

The scent literally stung the nostrils, and no amount of singing was going to help me overcome the nausea.

A combo of half a package of wet wipes, some paper towels, and a removal of the rain cover allowed us to clean out and air out our tent in time for bed that evening.

A cautionary tale? I hope not! I knew as I sat in the corner o

f that hot smelly tent, cleaning poop, that this would be a story for the books. These things happen, and they bring color to our lives. They remind us to breath, and to stay present in each moment. There was no escaping the impact of what needed to be done in that moment. It reinforced my partnership with my husband. We moved quickly, we moved efficiently, and we did what needed to be done. No fighting, no harsh words, just "you handle them, Ill handle this."

I smiled as we drove home from the pier yesterday thinking about what had happened, and humming the "poop explosion song" to myself. It wasn't until later that evening that I realized that I hadn't truly experienced the song I had authored. I may not have realized what I was singing about, but my kids had.

We teach them. They teach us. And so it goes.