The mere ability to functionally exit a door toward one’s awaiting vehicle is a significantly larger endeavor of a to-do when kiddos are involved. This we know.

Heading out said door when one of the babes in tow is a newborn, however, becomes in itself a series of individual slapstick moments. And the comedy doesn’t end at the driveway.

Taking my newborn to his one-month checkup should have been easily straightforward.

My mother was watching my older tots, and with my husband planning to meet me at the doctor’s, it would be like those two-on-one days of yore back before we went to zone defense with two, and finally became outnumbered with three.

I had this in the bag. The diaper bag.

But I’d not slept in days, and my dark-circled eyes made this surely evident.

Talk about bags.

My diaper duffel was loaded with all the baby things, my purse perched on my other shoulder for practicality and balance. Nearly running late, I poked my head into my bedroom before running out the door.

‘Bye, Mom!’ I shouted as I breezed toward the front door, ‘I’m heading out!’

‘No, you’re not,’ she replied, ‘I have your baby.’

Sure enough, she was gingerly giving him a quick diaper change.

I was literally heading out the door to my son’s appointment without my son.

I wondered then if the pediatrician had ever seen that happen before to a sleepy-eyed parent?

The morning was about to get whackier.

I finally made it to the appointment – yes, baby in tow this time – ready to rock and roll this parent-of-three thing.

My husband met me while on his lunch break from work.

He was dressed in full-on work gear, looking every inch the business professional.

So no doubt you know where this story is headed.

After we were seated in the room by the nurse, she’d left to usher in the doctor.

Hubby, who hadn’t seen the baby all morning, cuddled him closely.

We heard certain rumblings just then from the baby’s diaper. He’d had a massive feeding, after all.

My husband and I looked at each other and just giggled at the sound.

I peered down at my husband’s lap by our little cuddled bundle of joy, prepared to pretend the baby’d just had a blow-out.

I didn’t need to pretend.

I yelled.

The explosive site of what the diaper couldn’t quite contain poured down my husband’s dress pants and pooled squarely onto the floor.

My husband rolled his eyes, saying, ‘Very funny.’

But then he felt it.

We both looked at each other, wide-eyed, speechless.

Instinctively, I grabbed the baby from him so that my husband could muster up a quick pants blotting via baby wipes snatched from our diaper bag.

But by seizing our infant – our teeny tot who’d made a monumental mess on his father’s lap – I merely transferred the mess to myself.

Streaks adorned my own pants.

My husband and I were in deep doo-doo now.

In walked our pediatrician, who immediately eyed us with nary a reaction, although my husband and I were clearly a mess.

In that moment, we were total proof that despite having just had our third baby in six years, rookie moments continued to ensue.

We’re getting older, but we’re never old hat at this whole newborning thing.

Though my husband teaches a class for expectant fathers, and though I write a syndicated parenting column, this particular hour of shenanigans just proved once again we’re not professionals – we’re parents.

We’re learning daily.

Maybe tomorrow we’ll keep a little cleaner longer. Maybe we won’t.

But I do know that no amount of What-To-Expect type of literature can keep any parents immune from making continued rookie mistakes.

And I’ll never again underestimate the importance of packing a change of clothes.