She stood there, leering at me, knowing full well what she had done. She had done it before. So too, had the sister before her, and her sister before her. At that very moment I was not yet privy to the complication that had arisen so abruptly and without warning, focusing more fully on getting lunches in bags, shoes on the correct feet, all while trying to avoid sweating through my shirt before I submerged myself into Florida’s swampassery. The horn was back.

You may or may not know what the horn is. Few do. I’m not certain it’s a thing aside from my house, appearing two to three times a year, all prior to the graduation from pampers to underoos, sometimes but rarely reappearing. It’s best you don’t encounter it. The horn is not here to greet you in friendship, the horn is here to dominate you. Like the Mindflayer of Stranger Things, the horn is here to control you from the time of its arrival until the time of its disposal. Left unaddressed, the horn can take over a room. No sense left unaffected, focus now or pay the price.

The horn appeared on a Tuesday morning, just deep enough into the week for a parent to start failing, but not far enough in to get the back end dopamine burst of a Thursday or Friday morning, full of encouragement knowing wine and bourbon are about to ring the doorbell. We had been fed, clothes on, hair and teeth brushed, and running just a bit late. My wonderful bride (who really does most of the work around here) was already into her virtual meeting and unavailable to aid. Like the OK corral, it was me, the two eldest dragons, the baby and the recently appearing felon.

This is the part of the blog that will separate those that want to read my bullshit from those that think I’m an idiot. If you are the latter, I bid you adieu, it will not improve because this is my life (likely yours should your pull out game be weak or your wife trick you) and like it or not, if you can’t laugh about it, you will assuredly cry and/or die.

The horn, if you haven’t figured it out by now, is a shit. Not just any shit, a shit that is so colossal in size and stature that what you have before you is clearly a shape shifter, not of this world. Not a diaper poo that Grandmas worldwide wrangle with one arm while whipping up a scratch pie with the other. Not a side of the road diaper load that we’ve all encountered six hours into a wonderful family vacation drive. Horns are similar in shape to a cross between a unicorn horn (ding, ding, ding- hence the name) and a baseball bat. The diaper and pants protrude outwardly no less than six inches, waggling like a lizard tail a la Johnny Depp in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas while encompassed in a drug binge. Dispose of it or at any given time it could escape not only the diaper, but your vision, taking refuge in your home or changing table, with only a prayer of avoiding cross contamination or worse, it taking residence. This fateful morning the Iddiest Biddy was in no mood for cooperation when she recognized her creation, rather than accepting her role as the diaper changee, deciding instead to embark on a career in gymnastic floor routine, bounding away with little control over her colleague from the Southside of town. An effective defense is critical here.

Unlike routine changings, there is something about the air to surface ratio of a horn that intensifies the chemical nature of this mission. I originally drafted a description but then realized I would be insulting your intelligence to believe you don’t understand where I’m going with that. Air + poo = yuck. Fucking plagues have been started from that cocktail. The whole occasion is akin to Seal Team Six descending upon a really, really, bad guy, taking him into custody, debriefing the situation, him engaging in a violent response, the Seals left with only one option- the option to terminate the problem. That is what was required. That is what happened. Baby tackled (carefully), other children ordered into the garage, hazmat sheets spread throughout the changing area, and the horn compromised with four packages of wipes (pure of course for the tender and expensive asses of the Maybeauties) and an industrial garbage bag, buried six stories underground in a capsule that Chernobyl would be envious of. The changing mat did not survive. My shirt did not survive. The shorts, once the home of the horn, smoldered as they were buried with it, making up it’s final resting place. The scent, one you will not likely see soon as a seasonal addition for glade plug ins or febreze, worked its way through the house’s ventilation system into my wife’s office, resulting in her natural concerned reaction. By then though, it was over.

We defeated the horn that morning, as we have several times before. Luckily no lives were lost and no one was injured. That said, something like that changes a person. We are not programmed to deal with half billy club, half mystical creature diaper occupants and the training is very much fire driven. We have, however moved on. The baby, now thirteen pounds lighter, is a bit more agile, a bit more deliberate in her activities. We did not ask for it, did not invite it, however after defeating this mass, we are stronger for it.