Who Does Number Two Work For?

I'm so sorry, but this post is going to have to enter the poop realm. With the occasional exception, I have been trying to stay away from the trifecta of annoying* parenting conversation topics: poop, developmental milestones, and breastfeeding. It's really a quad-fecta that includes sleep, but I post about that all the time so I am intentionally leaving it out in the hopes that you won't notice how truly boring my blog is (totally making my own word there, by the way, you like it?).

Anyway, er, yes, the poop. As I have mentioned in passing before (a mention in passing TOTALLY doesn't count as annoying), Lucy occasionally has some trouble pooping. It has actually, amazingly, been less of an issue lately, as she has been pooping nearly every day since she started daycare (see, I didn't blog about THAT). But this weekend she was, shall we say, lagging behind a bit. Overdue for some Number Two. And quite fussy for much of her awake time all day Saturday and Sunday. I chalked it up to crappy napping, a common problem for little L.E. But as Finn, M. and I were eating dinner on Sunday night, Lucy finally let loose, inspired by some rockin' good play time in her bouncy chair.

Thinking that I had the easier job, I offered to change Lucy's diaper if M. would clean up Finn and get him down from the dinner table. It quickly became apparent, however, that I unwittingly set myself up for the clean up of the worst poop-splosion I have ever seen. I picked up a smiling Lucy (should have been a clue right there - of course she was grinning like an idiot, she was finally empty of massive amounts of poop), and soon realized that my hands were gripping a wet onesie. And wet jeans. Both of which were wet ALL around the waisteband. I looked down at the hapless bouncy chair, and saw the wetness echoed all over that fabric, too. Uh oh.

Worst clean-up EVER! Poop on Lucy's stomach. Poop on her legs. Poop on her hands. Poop on MY hands. Poop on the changing pad. For all I know, poop on her poor little head (always a challenge to get those pooped-on onesies off without some collateral damage). I managed to keep it down to a 10 or so wipe event, but only because I had M. start the water for a bath as soon as I realized the extent of the damage. Even though it wasn't supposed to be a bath night.

All is right in the world now, of course. The poop is gone, the baby is clean-smelling and asleep, and I rewarded my efforts with a nice glass of Pinot Grigio once the kids were asleep. A lesson has been learned, however. Next time, I'm choosing the Finn clean-up!

Since I am sharing poop stories here, I may as well drag Finn into this, mostly because I would like a written record of his quirks to reflect on when we're old and gray.

Finn is a phenomenal potty pooper. Really great. He hasn't had a poop accident since early July or June. Not only that, but he's just GOOD at it. It doesn't take forever, he knows when he has to go, and he gets the job done. He'll do it at home or out in public, and he's not scared of "falling in." But he does have some rituals that he seems to follow every time he poops (it would be interesting to know if he does the same at school, too).

When Finn first determines that he as to poop, he tells us and makes a beeline for the bathroom. When he gets there, we help him pull down his shorts and underwear, which he then kicks off completely. And EVERY time, as he kicks them off, he says "It's easier if I take them off." Then, in a gymnastic-like move, he straddles the seat and scoots himself back as far as his little hiney can go. YOU know, so that when he pees, it stays in the bowl (I'm actually quite grateful for this). He makes whichever parent is standing guard hold his shirt up (way, way up) because he is convinced that otherwise, it would get peed on. Said parent is not allowed to lean against the sink or the wall to support themselves as they crouch awkwardly to hold this shirt up. Oh no. You try it, you get reprimanded. And then, EVERY time, Finn channels Haley Joel Osment in the Sixth Sense and whispers, "I hear poop coming."

Then, magically, it does come. And Finn, gripping the seat of the toilet tightly, leans over to watch it intently once it's in the bowl, making note of whether it sinks or floats, or whether it disappears down the drain.

The end.

*Don't get me wrong, I don't find those topics annoying. I could go on and on all day about them. Seriously. Ask my co-worker Donna. I just imagine people who don't have small kids/are not planning on having small kids soon are not quite as interested in them.