Textbook

It happens, I guess.

We're driving home from the northwoods, eh, home of log cabins, fake log cabin siding, and really really bad decorating tastes. We left just as the kids should have started their nap, hoping for only one stop. We were also hoping to make it to the rest stop but the first rest stop is 140 miles down the road. That's right, this stupid state thinks it's okay to go 140 miles without a single solitary rest stop.

We're actually only 20 or 30 miles from the rest stop when Milo starts fussing. Jake says, "do you smell something? One of them must have filled their pants." Oh well, I think, we'll change it when we stop soon. Meanwhile Milo keeps fussing so I turn around in my seat and get up on my knees to check him out and maybe give him a new toy or something, and I see something brown on his sock. Why is his sock brown? I take off his sock and sniff it, and Oh My God, that's not chocolate. Then I see brown on his leg. And on the straps of the carseat. And on his shorts, and holy shit, a giant pile on the carseat itself. It is EVERYWHERE. I start saying "Oh my god, Oh my god, brown...blowout...pull over!" Jake pulls off the first exit we find and we wander around some small godforsaken town looking for somewhere to change a baby, anywhere, even just a spot with shade, for crying out loud. We end up in a bank parking lot taking 20 minutes to somehow try to clean the carseat, the straps, the baby, and the seatbelt with just a bunch of wipes. Poor Milo is covered. It's on his hands, his feet, his legs, everywhere. After using about 50 wipes and getting a fair amount of shit on our own hands in the process, we get everything reasonably clean and then the babies are starving, so we sit in the sad bank parking lot, feeding our kids in the hot car.

This state needs more rest stops.