Now, everyone has a poop story, it's true. And it's a pretty gross thing, to even have a poop story, but they appear to be inevitable.
Oh, and death.
Yesterday, I was in the basement, listening to the twins wake up. Generally they wake up laughing, giggling and squealing at one another. We usually let them stay in their cribs until they reach the hollering stage, since we like relaxing without short people grunting, "Ehn! Ehn! Ehn!" at us all of the time. Well, the laughing turned to crying and I heard Eric get up and go to the twins' room.
Then, after a pause in the screaming, I heard Eric cry: "Help!"
I finished up quickly and jogged upstairs to see Eric pulling all of Logan's blanket's out of the crib. On entering the room, my nose was assaulted by that smell. Logan had pulled off his poop-filled diaper and tossed it out of the crib. There was a little poop here and there.
However, they are twins. There are two of them.
We'll never know just who started it, but over in Emma's crib, there was a similar scene. Only...worse.
Emma was backed up against the wall, wearing only her shirt. Her hands were out to either side, unmoving and looking horrified. She had also removed her diaper, only hers was still in the crib, along with smears in a semi-circle in front of her, next to her, on her clothes and all over her feet.
The Poop Monster had come for Emma.
I saw her poor little shocked face and burst out laughing. Then I started the bath running. Bathtime!
I'm kind of hoping they were traumatized enough that they won't do it again. A girl can dream!
And no, there are no photos. (Although I did think about it. Heh heh heh!)