I'm a slacker. I'll admit it. But every once in a while I'll take hero's measures to rise up above mediocrity.
Like childrearing, for instance. I own 37 books on pregnancy, what to expect when you have run out of things to expect, how to make your child a friggin' Einstein. Blah, blah, blah. Did I read every single one of them? Hell, no. I made a good faith effort.
But I am pretty sure that the stuff that continues to surprise me will not be found in any book (other than the one I will be writing when this is all said and done). Last night would be case in point.
I'm sitting on the couch and the boy is playing with his cars on the floor. Happy as a clam. Which is when I should have realized that something was very, very wrong. I got up to get something off the book shelf above him and I thought I caught of wisp of something foul.
"Buddy, did you fill your diaper?"
He kind of looked at me like I had three heads and I sat back down. His father said that he couldn't smell anything. Convenient, wouldn't you say? I figured that I would give the kid a few minutes to work it all out.
But the smell was getting stronger. I went over and picked him up.
There... in the middle of the floor... was a pile of poop. It looked strangely like that gag-gift plastic poop that you would get when you were a kid. The one that you would slip onto someone's chair before they sat down so everyone would laugh when the victim jumped up in surprise.
My 11-month old crapped in the middle of the living room. Right out the side of his diaper and onto Ernie, as a matter of fact. I took a picture of it to put on the post, but I think it would be too offensive for my mother.
I just never realized that having a baby would be so much like having a puppy.