One of the stories I remember most vividly (which means he remembers it most vividly) involves a hot dog, an upset belly, puke in a new car, and dad catching all of my vomit with his bare hands.

The first time I heard that story, I thought it was so gross that I gagged.

Now, however, with a daughter of my own, I get it—especially after the events that transpired during last night’s tub.

In a nutshell, L decided that last night was the night to inaugurate me into her tub-pooping club (previously, only Powergirl had been initiated). Thankfully, we managed to get through almost the entire bath before the turd appeared. Then, however, as we were saying goodnight to all of the tubby toys, there it was.

For an uber-neurotic like myself, I didn’t panic at all. Instead, I calmly picked L out of the tub, dried her off, washed her legs again (that was the only part of her in the water when Mr. Turd stopped by), and put her in her crib while I cleaned up.

The clean-up is where the story gets gross. I knew I had to remove the turd immediately but wasn’t sure how to do it. I looked around for some sort of scooper, but found nothing. I looked around for a spare washcloth, but saw nothing. Finally, because I’m a dude and because I was rushing, I simply reached into the bathtub, grabbed the turd with my bare hands and tossed it in the toilet.

I don’t remember much about this brief transport, except that at one point, the smell was awful, and at another point, I thought to myself, “This is what fatherhood truly means.”

Dad, I finally understand. Thanks for catching my vomit way back when. I love you, too.

Most of our night together was awesome as always; after a leisurely dinner of puffs, tangerines, bananas and chicken with yam/apple/zucchini compote, the baby joined me for a stroll around the block.

After our walk was when things went south. L has developed a nasty habit of staging her biggest diaper-changing squirm-a-thons when Powergirl is MIA, and tonight was no exception. Her episode left her and part of our couch covered in poop and pee. It left me feeling soiled as well, though in a completely different way.

I’ll spare you the details because they’re sort of gross. Suffice it to say the diaper came off, and within seconds, poop was everywhere. Just as I managed to clean up the poop, the pee arrived.

Oh, and to make matters worse, there was blood, too—L had cut herself with her own nail (and my dry knuckles split open as I tried to grab her, flip her and wipe the poop).

Instead of losing my marbles as I’ve done in the past, I (somehow) managed to keep it together and deal with the situation at hand. Still, I yelled quite a bit—at least enough to force my daughter to shift her crying into overdrive.

The yelling was just the beginning. After the storm, once everyone/everything was cleaned up, I proceeded to spend the better part of the night beating myself up for my overreaction. Did I have to yell? Was it really that bad? Is L going to grow up and think I’m a hotheaded father with no regard for her feelings? Am I a terrible father for losing my patience…again?

After these rhetorical questions, guilt consumed me. I couldn’t sit still. So I did what any other moping stay-at-home dad would do: I went on a dad-related binge of chores.

I folded laundry. I did the dishes. I made three batches of L’s food. Then I reorganized her toys.

Eventually, I managed to calm down and come to terms with the way the night played out. Was it one of my proudest evenings? Not exactly. But it’s also was an evening that will make me a better father down the road.

The lesson: As parents, it’s perfectly acceptable for us to lose our patience every once in a while. How we deal with these situations, how we learn from them, is another thing entirely.

Still, there is one chore that still makes me spaz: Changing my squirmy daughter when she’s got a diaper full of poop.

No matter how hard I try to keep my cool during these situations, I inevitably lose my marbles.

We had an episode today. After her morning meal and morning reading session (we read the same five books after breakfast every day), L was quite literally stinking up her room. She needed a change. To make the process easier for myself (in other words, to capitalize on distractions such as the TV remote), I took her downstairs to do the job on the couch.

As soon as I got her diaper off, the kid started squirming. Orange poop (she’s been eating carrots this week) flew everywhere: On the couch, on my shirt and, perhaps most disgustingly, in the poor baby’s hair.

I wanted to stay calm, I really did. I reached for a wipe to clean the poop out of her hair, but that only made it worse. As the situation degraded into crisis, I became entranced, muttering “Poop in the hair, poop in the hair, poop in the hair” until it became like a mantra.

The poop explosion quite literally had stupefied me and thrown me off my game. Again.

Thankfully, Powergirl heard my cry and ran in to help. Somehow, my wife got the kid calm. Then, in about 60 seconds, she changed the diaper and got everything else cleaned up. I stood by in amazement, marveling at how the child’s mother took charge of the situation. Finally, when I managed to regain my composure, I took L upstairs to wash her hair.

I’ve been thinking about the entire episode ever since. Why does this remain the only situation to trigger meltdowns? How can I overcome it? Furthermore, how are these mothers capable of handling certain situations so instinctively?

Sooner or later, I’m sure, I’ll figure it all out. Until then, any thoughts on the subject (and advice) are welcome.

Let me explain. Every morning after L wakes up, I stagger into her room, take her out of her sleep sack and change her diaper (we call this the “pre-bottle routine”). This morning, however, when I plopped her on the changing table for a pit stop, the half-naked little wiggle-worm tried to launch herself off the pad and practice flying.

Three times.

The first time I managed to keep it together and playfully said, “No.” The second time, I was a bit more stern, raising my voice slightly but adding a gentle, “Silly girl,” to make clear I was still her friend.

Upon the child’s final attempt—the violent thrust that managed to get poop all over my hands and arms, not to mention the changing pad, the baby’s pajamas and parts of the changing table, too—I basically lost my marbles, raising my voice and uttering two words a new daddy never, ever wants to say and mean: “BAD GIRL!”

The baby snapped into compliance and stopped her behavior immediately (of course it helped that I gave her my watch to play with while I managed to clean up and get her diaper on). For the rest of the morning, though, I was a wreck; convincing myself that by yelling that loudly over something so silly, I had committed some form of emotional child abuse.

Questions ran rampant through my mind. Did I overreact? Do other parents yell at their 9-month-old kids? Will she remember that I yelled at her and hate me forever? Will her hatred for me kick off a lifelong hatred for men in general, prompting her to become a social misfit?

Thankfully, this torture ended relatively fast; after three hours with her nanny (I had to lead a Webinar), the baby was giggling at me and actually managed to give me a kiss (her new favorite thing to do, by the way).

Still, if my reaction to my reaction is any indication, this whole discipline thing is only going to get harder as L grows up, and I’m in for a world of pain.

I had one such moment today. The inspiration: L’s first grown-up turd.

Not to be gross or anything, but up until this point, all of the baby’s poops were more liquid than solid; the kind of stuff you could hear gushing out. Then, this afternoon, after nearly a week of sweet potatoes, the baby introduced us to something most definitely solid, a miniature version of the same thing we adults produce.

To be frank, this “development” caught me by surprise. My nose told me she had a present in the diaper. But when I lifted down the front of her Huggies, the last thing I expected to see was a little Almond Roca.

The first questions that ran through my mind were: How long had it been there? Why didn’t she cry as it came out? And why the hell does it smell so awful?

Then, of course, the practical (read: neurotic) part of my brain kicked in with follow-ups: How do I clean this up? Are there city ordinances that govern how I should dispose of it? How does it compare in size to turds from other children her age?

(Damn those percentile charts that L’s doctor is always giving us.)

As I deposited L’s deposit into a deodorizing baggie, I couldn’t help but think of the song “Sunrise, Sunset” from “Fiddler on the Roof.” In the song, parents Tevye and Golde croon wistfully about the bittersweet realities of their daughters growing up. Sure, the ballad is about kids becoming adults and getting married. But the sentiment—my sentiment—was exactly the same.

So far, however, it’s clear that one of the only things I inspire her to do currently is poop.

I came to this conclusion after some (not-so) scientific research conducted over the course of this past week. The highlights of this research:

• Between Sunday of last week and yesterday, L soiled a grand total of 81 Huggies.
• I changed 42 of them; Powergirl changed 39.
• Of the diapers in my batch, 26 (61.9 percent) were filled with poop, and 16 (38.1 percent) with pee.
• Of the diapers changed by Powergirl, only 9 (23.1 percent) were filled with poop, while the remaining 30 (76.9 percent) were filled with pee.

Presented another way, my research indicates that roughly six out of every ten diapers on my watch had poop, while for Powergirl the stats were only two out of every ten.

Why does L seem to poop more around me? I’ve got some (absurd and probably self-important) ideas:

• She feels relaxed around me, so it is easier for her to, um, let go.
• She thinks her mother would rather clean pee (which Powergirl would).
• She knows, inherently, that I am neurotic man, and is trying to break me of this sickness before my neuroses become a real problem (like, before she hits puberty).
• She likes the song I sing when I wipe her tiny tush (it involves lyrics such as “Clean your little boo-tee” and “Wipe that poop!”), and has learned that I’ll sing it more when she produces.

Of course the explanation could be completely unscientific as well. Perhaps I just watch her during her predominant “poop” times—early morning, mid afternoon. Perhaps the way I hold her and occasionally bounce her makes it easier for her to get the job done.

Maybe it’s just the luck of the draw, and over the course of, say, a full month or a full year, L’s poop/pee splits will even out like the odds in a game of single-deck blackjack.

Whatever the reason, I gladly accept my role as L’s poop muse. Most of we men think and talk quite a bit about poop, so for me the situation is perfectly comfortable. To paraphrase a line from “Field of Dreams,” when she makes it, I will clean. I just wonder how long the current trend will last.

The product essentially is a portable bag dispenser. Inside, you drop a cylindrical refill that consists of one long plastic (and deodorizing) bag. For each dirty diaper, you knot the top end of the plastic, pull it through the top of the dispenser and use a tiny razor in the packaging to slice off a bag of just about any size. You then use the resulting catch-all to wrap up any mess.

Once poopy pants are secured in your new bag, you knot the top end, creating a little Tootsie Roll-like sack. The little purse is perfectly safe and sanitary to toss into everyday trash.

It also saves you mad dash to the Diaper Genie.

I admit, the Knot-It isn’t for everybody. Powergirl, for instance, hates the fact that once you slice off a bag, you need to knot another one—she thinks the bags should come pre-knotted to save her (and other Moms) the hassle. Online, I’ve seen haters say that the little plastic clip on the outside of the unit also gets caught on stuff (I just took my clips off).

Other parent friends have told me that they can’t get excited about the product because it reminds them too much of something they might use to clean up after their dogs (the implication here that dog poop is any different from human poop, which it really isn’t).

I see merit in both opinions, but as far as I’m concerned, anything that facilitates the process of eliminating poop is worth a try.