The Birth of a Shitcident 👩‍🍼

Parenthood is a wild ride. One minute, you’re young, carefree, and sleeping through the night, and the next, you’re calibrating your entire life around nap schedules, diaper blowouts, and car seat tantrums.

We were living this reality firsthand with our newborn daughter and potty-training toddler. Both sets of our families lived three hours away—far enough to make visiting an ordeal, but not far enough to justify skipping out on family time. So, like the dedicated (and slightly delusional) parents we were, we spent almost every weekend packing up our tiny, unpredictable humans, stuffing the car to the brim with baby gear, and hitting the road for what was supposed to be a three-hour drive.

Supposed to be.

The thing is, a three-hour drive only works in theory when you don’t factor in:

1. A toddler who hates car seats with a fiery passion.
2. Said toddler learning to game the system by declaring he has to “go pee pee” every 30 minutes, knowing full well that we’d have to pull over.
3. A newborn who preferred to nurse around the clock, including mid-highway emergencies.

So, while Google Maps promised a neat three-hour trip, reality always turned it into a grueling four to five-hour endurance test that required the patience of a monk and the bladder control of a camel.

A Promising Start

One particular Sunday evening, we were heading home from yet another family visit. We were tired, the kids were tired, and for once, we were actually making good time.

At the two-hour mark, things were looking promising—so much so that we decided to reward ourselves by ordering takeout from one of our favorite restaurants along the way. A little treat for surviving another weekend of family obligations, sleepless nights, and dodging well-meaning but unsolicited parenting advice.

We called in our order, strategized the pit stop to minimize delays, and marveled at how smoothly things were going.

What could possibly go wrong?

The Pit Stop of Doom

As we pulled into the parking lot, our toddler declared, “I gotta go pee pee.”

Classic.

So, I took him inside while my wife stayed in the car to nurse our daughter. No big deal. We had a system.

• Step 1: Toddler pees.
• Step 2: I pick up the food.
• Step 3: We’re back on the road, victorious.

I was inside no more than ten minutes. TEN MINUTES.

And yet, when I returned to the car, I was not prepared for what awaited me.

The Scene of the Shitcident

I open the door, expecting to find my wife peacefully nursing our daughter, maybe scrolling through her phone. Instead, I am greeted by pure chaos.

My wife is sitting in the passenger seat, looking utterly defeated.

And she is wearing… nothing but her underwear and a nursing cover.

This is not normal.

I blink.

I take a step closer, sniffing the air.

Oh no.

“…What happened?” I ask, cautiously.

She slowly turns to me with the dead, hollow eyes of someone who has seen things.

And then, in a voice that is equal parts exhausted, horrified, and resigned to fate, she delivers the tale.

The Perfect Storm

It all started innocently enough. She had unbuckled our daughter, positioned her for nursing, and was minding her own business.

Then, without warning, our tiny, angelic newborn turned into a horror movie.

First, projectile spit-up.

All over my wife’s shirt.

Not just a little drizzle. Not a polite “oopsie” baby burp. No. A full-blown, milk-spewing.

Before my wife could even react, round two commenced.

This time, from the other end.

While still latched onto my wife, our newborn unleashed a diaper blowout of biblical proportions.

Code Brown!

And because my wife was holding her in prime burping position, that diaper had no chance.

Within seconds, my wife was covered in poop – blouse to shoes.

And not just “a little poop.”

Oh no.

We’re talking a full-blown, poop-soaked disaster. A crime scene. A toxic spill requiring federal intervention.

And that is how I found my wife—stripped down to her underwear, sitting in a poop-scented car, holding a now blissfully sleeping baby, wondering where her life went wrong.

The Ride Home

At this point, there was nothing to be done.

We had no extra clothes for her in the car. We left them at the mother-in-laws to be washed for our journey back home the next weekend. (Rookie mistake.)

We couldn’t very well drive another two hours while marinating in that smell.

But what were our options?

• Drive to a store so she could walk in half-naked and buy new clothes?
• Turn around and move in with my parents permanently?

So, instead, we did what all battle-worn parents eventually do: we embraced the suffering.

She cleaned herself up as best she could with a pack of baby wipes, swaddled herself in the nursing cover, and we drove home with the windows down, basking in the scent of warm takeout, baby wipes, and lingering baby poop.

The Birth of a Legend

As we merged back onto the highway, silent, defeated, forever changed, my wife took a deep breath and said:

“And that… is how the term ‘shitcident’ was born.”

We sat with that for a moment.

Then, finally, after the longest 30 minutes of our lives, I turned to her and said, “Well… at least the view on my right isn’t bad.”

Her glare could have melted steel.

But even she had to admit—it was a pretty funny story.

Eventually.

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And that, my friends, is the true origin story of the word shitcident.

A word that now lives in infamy in our household—whispered whenever we recount the war stories of parenthood, diaper blowouts, and unfortunate car rides.

So, if you’re ever debating having kids, just remember:

You, too, may one day find yourself half-naked in a takeout parking lot, covered in baby excretions, reevaluating all your life choices.

And that is when you’ll know—you’ve truly arrived as a parent.