The other day, my son and I were talking and I remembered this story, which I feel is worth telling here, though it happened many years ago (before my blogging days had begun).
My son was about 18 months old, and was taking a nap. The kids and I were going to attend a house blessing service/party when he woke up, so I was getting ready. I heard him wake up and play quietly in his crib. While I did my hair and makeup, I marveled at how nicely he was playing. I almost didn't want to bother him, so well was he amusing himself. The time, however, did come, and I went in to get him out of bed so we could leave.
I knew something was amiss from the moment I opened the door. The stench was overpowering. As my nose was assaulted, I turned my head toward his crib. There sat my (happy!) son, covered in poop. There was poo everywhere. Poop on the crib rails, poop on his sheets, poop on the walls, poop on his face, hands, clothes. If the poop had been blood, it would have looked like a grisly crime scene. Instead, it looked like a nightmare of epic proportions.
Ah, the memories. Suffice it to say we were a little late for the house blessing.
Writing this story reminds me of another poop story (is this some sort of sign??). We were having friends over (thankfully very good friends who would not be freaked out by our children's bodily functions). My husband was rapidly giving the two kids a bath. I was downstairs and going to answer the door when I heard my husband yelling. Our son (the same one, ironically, as in the story above - hhmm. . . )had gotten out of the tub and walked down the hallway, pooping along the way. While I let our guests in and explained the situation, my husband was upstairs, searching for poop. That was several years ago, and we're assuming he found it all.