Did you miss me last night, Mr. Blog? Nick, the baby and I were out in New Jersey with Grandpa Terzi celebrating his birthday. We dined out at a Japanese restaurant. Genny had her first bite of ice cream, but she seemed more interested in the fresh cantaloupe.
We had a first tonight. Genny was in the bath, splashing along. All of a sudden she stood up and we heard a wet, squishy unfolding sound and then a sploosh, kerplunk, plop. Genny pooped in the tub. Three turtles floating around, bobbing up and down.
I’m really sorry for the graphic nature of the last paragraph. For those of you reading this who don’t have children you’re probably thinking, “Man, that Sheila sure spends a lot of time thinking about and writing about poop.” If you have a baby, then you understand how important a thing poop is to one’s day.
At least we have passed the dreaded half-a-dozen poops a day phase of Gen’s life. One or two, or three at the most, poops a day is nothing. I remember when Gen was first born; I had never changed a diaper in my life. I felt so completely out of my element (or my smellement), but now, I can change a poop-filled diaper on a squirming, rolling, crying and generally unhappy toddler. Pretty impressive, I know.
Poop—it does a body good.