Who is in charge around here?

So, I am truly learning something everyday. You see, all those baby books seem a little ridiculous to me, I mean, really, do I need a book to tell me to pack two changes of clothes, 7 diapers, diaper cream, yadda yadda yadda? Noooo, not me! I got this, people.
Until.
It was going to be so fun, Lucas and I were on our way to meet Ben for lunch and then to show the little guy all around the office. So lunch goes well, delicious and tear free. Then we head to Ben's office. The peanut got a little fussy in the elevator, not a big deal. When we get out of the elevator, the proud daddy scooped his little muffin out of the car seat and came up with two hands of baby and covered in a thick layer of baby poop that had squooshed right out the little guy's diaper. Not to worry, right, I mean, of course I had an extra onesie. Except I didn't. So, we quickly get ourselves to an empty desk and lay out the changing pad to change what really looks like Mount Vesuvious revisited in green, and as I reach into the diaper bag, I see that there is not one single diaper in the bag. Ummm, who is responsible for this?!?! Who?!?! I will have their job for this, someone is going to pay! Heads are going to roll. I mean, what kind of ding dong would leave the house without two changes of clothes and seven extra diapers?!
Oh yeah, that's right, me. They really will let anyone have a baby.
So, I want you all to know that this kid hates, HATES a dirty diaper. No joke. He looks at me like, "Hey, chow train, get this stinkbomb off me. Seriously, you know I don't like to wait. I'm starting to lose my patience. I thought I have made it clear I don't like a mess down there."
Ben and I look at each other and the thoughts in both our minds were: Holy Shit. This isn't going to be good. Quick as lightning, Ben puts the baby back in the car seat. (Did I mention it also was covered in poop? It was covered in poop) I take off for the elevator and book it to the parking garage. Lucas keeps looking at me like, "Hey, this plan better include taking this wet stinky thing off me, STAT."
But his desperate mental telepathy pleas make way for the terrifying shriek I think I have mentioned in an earlier post. Not a fun drive, but I know it is only 1.1 miles home. Once I get in the house and assess the damage, I am pretty sure that Lucas is developing a hardcore grudge against me that only a serious breastfeeding session will cure, and that I will suffer hearing loss from this moment on.
The word pooplosion has taken on new meaning. A full load of laundry is now running in the basement, and Lucas is asleep.
Ahhh, what a relaxing lunch date. Sortof.