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Dear Blow-Out Diaper,

First of all, I just want you to know that I’m on to you. Evidently you are declaring war. You’ve thrown down the gauntlet. You’ve made your intentions of being a repeat offender very clear.

I’ve tried Huggies, Luvs, Pampers, and all together avoidance of the Bumbo (aka poop) chair to no avail. You rear your ugly head on an (almost) daily basis with your show stopping antics. And I know you think you’ve upped the stakes with the introduction of solid foods.

But, dear Sir, I’m afraid you’ve underestimated your opponent. I may look harried, unwashed, and sleep-deprived– but I’ve been training for you since college. Maybe longer. I scoop litter boxes and clean up hairballs from a bulimic cat on the regular. You can’t intimidate me.

Let’s analyze the stats, shall we? You’ve only managed to permanently destroy one garment and it was a total fluke. You took a cheap shot on a road trip. Otherwise, it’s Lorelai’s parents: 17, blow out diaper: 0.

We’ve developed a sophisticated system for responding to your covert operations:

DIAPER BAG: Stocked with 26 diapers, 3,000 wipes, Boudreaux’s Butt Paste in a vat, 16 extra outfits including contingencies for inclement weather. Bring on Armageddon. We can take it.

CRIB: Bamboo crib mattress protector in place, all “cute” bedding packed away for Lorelai’s dolls because there is NO POINT in using them for an actual little human.

WIPE WARMER: Locked and loaded. Both of them. (I swear, I’m never running out of wipes again.)

DADDY: Primed and ready to scrub out stains from ANY garment in under 3 minutes. Thank you sweet Jesus for Dawn dish soap.

MOMMY: Calm, cool, collected. And buying stock in laundry detergent and Lysol.

JUST DEAL WITH ME, Blow Out Diaper. Your days are numbered.

Your unfazed foe,