Seth and I have one small Quinn, less than 6 months old, whom we have dropped off at the Granny-sitter's for the evening so that we can spend some time with some great couple-friends, most of whom have children 1 or more years older than our bitty boy. Conversation turns, as it invariably does, to the kids, and more specifically, in this case, to "poop accidents." Surprisingly, even the most "careful"-seeming of my friends seems to have a story about poop escaping and somehow getting ground into carpet.
On the ride home, in a moment of quiet reflection, Seth says to me, "Do you think they just don't watch their kids, or how does that happen???" And I turn to him and say, "I'm afraid it just happens...eventually they get away from you."
Fast forward to this week (And, no, my story does not actually involve poop.):
Quinn and I are playing in his room, and I'm practicing taking pictures of him with my new super-duper camera (that I have no clue how to optimize). He's happy for a while, rolling his cars up and down the ramp of his brand new Little People garage, but then he suddenly turns and books out of the room, sand-crab style, making a sharp right into the bathroom.
I hear nothing.
I call to him.
I hear nothing.
I see nothing.
I give it about 15 seconds before getting up to go check on the situation. And I find:
Happy, happy, happy!
"What?"
"Fine. I'll go show Dad."
Fifteen seconds, folks. When the poop comes, and I'm sure it will, we are toast.
