So Dane and I were just crawling around the playroom, making monkey noises (me) and eating a stuffed hippo hand puppet (him) and he starts fingering something on the rug and I look down and lo and behold, it’s a random poo patty. So I immediately jump up and sanitize his hands and scoop it up in a wipe (conveniently located near the poo patty where he’d removed the wipes package from the changing basket and was playing the drums on the crinkly wrapping), and then I give him the good thrice over to figure out where the hell THAT little gift came from but no, there’s no external evidence that any poo has exited his diaper or his clothes in the last, say, four hours. And so I think, well that’s random, and a minute later I look down and discover I have poo on my right arm and the right shoulder of my shirt. This is notable because my right side is my non-Dane-carrying side, so how the poo migrated from his diaper without touching any of his clothes, onto the floor and then onto my non-carrying forearm, and then sprung up onto my shoulder is anyone’s guess. AND THEN…
Remove my shirt, upstairs we go, sanitize again, and then I go to change his diaper and his clothes because surely, SURELY there will be something in one or the other to explain the magically appearing boomie, but when I get his shorts off, no poo anywhere, not even a trace. His diaper has a tiny trace on his tushy, but no conclusive evidence that the poo did not originate in an alternate universe and migrate here through a wormhole or alien spaceship or possessed satellite. So either my ear has learned to poop without my knowledge, or the Leapfrog play table in the playroom needs to start wearing diapers.
I really, really want to make a joke about needing the forensics team from CSI to study the mystery poo, only changing the “S” out for a less, ahem, mommy-ish word. However, today I have more restraint than the last time I wrote about poo. Growth, y’all.