Last week, I loaded up the three kids and the dog and drove the 830 miles to Paducah, KY to visit my parents.  All in all it was a good trip, and the kids traveled better than I expected. 

Sure, there was the expected bits of craziness along the way, like the billboard that read:

 “Tattoo Charlies – Done while you wait.” 

 Really?

 Is there a “to go” option?

 But that’s to be expected in Kentucky.  A state that once had this super pansy license plate  http://www.kentuckyroads.com/images/kentuckyroads/plate.jpg  with the state slogan “It’s that friendly!” 

 What does that even mean?

 Anyway, we were driving through Kentucky along farms and I began to smell something.  I assumed that it was just another farm.  Then I became convinced by the pure overwhelming pungency of the smell that it had to be more than just what a few cows could create.  I was sure it was liquid manure.

 If you didn’t grow up in the country, then you’re probably unfamiliar with liquid manure, which is a good thing.  I don’t claim to know exactly what it is, but based on the name alone I can only presume that someone goes around collecting manure and then puts it in a giant cuisinart until it is liquefied.  Maybe with a little lemon zest.

 Anyway, it is foul beyond belief.  I was sticking my head out the window trying to determine for sure that it definitely was liquid manure and not, say, something internal to our vehicle.

 I wasn’t sure, so I took the next exit and pulled into an Exxon station.  I asked Asher, my two year old, if he was poopy.

 “No.”

 But he lies about that a lot.  I don’t know why.  It is one of the more difficult lies to get away with considering you’re trying to hide the somewhat odoriferous evidence in your pants.  So,

I leaned over, gave his crotch a sniff and determined that he was not the culprit.

 Maybe it was those damn cows.

 I went to the other side of the van to check on my 10 month old, Micah, who was sitting there happily babbling to himself.   I took one look at him and said a silent prayer that maybe he had found some long forgotten snickers bar.  But I knew the truth.

 He was covered head to toe in a brown substance that I knew was not nougat.

I did a quick check of his crotch and yelled out “there’s been a breach in the hull!  All hands on deck!”  Unfortunately, no other hands came on deck.  I did have a friend traveling with me, but she made it pretty clear that there was no way on God’s green earth that she was getting involved in this.

So, I grabbed the whole carseat and diaper bag and headed for a nearby field.  There was no point in even checking to see if the Kentucky Exxon bathroom had a changing table. 

That would be like looking for Dick Cheney at a Greenpeace rally.

 I took out my changing pad, removed Micah and examined the damage.  There was poop everywhere.  On his face, on his hands on his clothes, on the carseat, in his hair.

 You know when you have to finish a diaper change by cutting fingernails, that you are in the midst of some pretty serious excrement.

 I went through a pack and a half of wipes, went ahead and threw away the onesie he had been wearing, and debated whether squirting a few ounces of Purell in his mouth would be more helpful or more harmful.

 Luckily I had a whole suitcase of clothes for him in the van.  So I cleaned him the best I could, dressed him in clean clothes, scrubbed down the carseat and carried a pound and a half of wipes, diaper and, … well you know, over to the trash can.   Then we all got back in the car and drove another 10 hours home.

 I wish I could tell you that that was the most disgusting thing that has happened to one of my kids, but it’s not.  It may not even be the most disgusting thing that has happened this year.  I’d have to think about it.  It is, however, the most disgusting thing that has happened to me in Kentucky and I think that is significant enough.

 “It’s That Friendly!”