As soon as I heard the explosion, I knew what had happened in shaded recesses of the stroller: little L had produced what one reader has likened a “massive blowout,” the class of poopage that has this uncanny knack for bursting through a diaper and soiling an entire onesie.

The problem, of course, was that she was with me on a reporting assignment at the Sharpsteen Museum in Calistoga, Calif.

Calmly, I asked one of the volunteer docents to point me in the direction of the restrooms.

“They’re outside,” she said. That meant they were not air-conditioned and probably dirty, a definite no-no for my little girl.

“Thanks,” I muttered. Then I pushed the stroller out to the parking lot, where I did what any former-car-camping-addict-turned-stay-at-home dad would do, and MacGyver-ed the trunk into a makeshift changing table.

I managed to get L out of the car seat relatively quickly; the poop had oozed only halfway up her back by the time I opened my travel changing pad and pulled her onesie off. What followed was nothing short of performance art—in less than three minutes I cleaned the crap off of her, changed her diaper, got her in a new onesie and strapped her back into the seat, good as new.

I was quick. I was graceful. I was efficient. And I only dropped four F-bombs in the process.

Technically, this performance wasn’t unrehearsed. Last week, during a visit from my parents on my mother’s sixtieth birthday, L gifted us with another one of these explosive poops in the middle of lunch in Healdsburg. That time—the first time in public—Powergirl and I were completely unprepared: only a few wipes, no spare onesie and a flimsy changing pad.

The results were gruesome. We were both pretty much covered in poop. Lunch was ruined. On top of that, mid-relief bickering sparked a mutual silent treatment for nearly an hour.

Because of this, the Sharpsteen incident was a major victory. The baby didn’t cry once. The poop was contained efficiently. Hell, I even managed to get the quotes and information I needed for my story.

Most important, if you had seen the baby just after the episode and didn’t know what had transpired, you wouldn’t even have suspected it was Poop City moments before.

The lesson here is that the only way to see if your baby can “be good” in public places is to try. Get out there. Bring the kid. If she needs to eat and you’re at a truck stop, you feed her in the Burger King. If she has a massive blowout in the middle of a community historical museum, you head to the car and do whatever you must to clean her up.

Kids are easy—they don’t care where or how they get what they need. The sooner we moms and dads solve this great mystery, the easier it is to feel like we’ve got this parenthood business under control.