There was a big party this weekend and Billy slept in the same room with us for it. He had a great time.
But the morning after the party I woke up to hear him whining weakly. It wasn't worth asking Daddy to go deal even though it was Daddy's morning. (We take turns sleeping in). But Daddy had a different party Friday night as well, and after two nights of revelry was dead to the world. So, I cracked an eye open.
Billy was standing in his Go Crib as far into the corner he could go and whining pathetically.
"What's the matter?" I asked. It was a rough morning. I wanted to go back to sleep (fat chance).
"Poop," he cried.
"Go back to sleep, there's no poop." Well, I wasn't actually over there looking or smelling, but he no longer poops at night.
"Poop."
So, I propped up on an elbow to see him better. He was backed into that corner as far as he would go. He saw me looking at him and pointed into the crib, "poop!"
Oh, crap.
I got up to check. Poop.
Mad dash to the kitchen for plastic bags and back to the room again to deal with the mess. Poor guy. He'd had a back end blowout. Fortunately, his jammy pants took the brunt of the blow, but the crib didn't escape unharmed, and the same for his blankets.
He was not a happy camper.
We got all cleaned up and then went outside to watch Swim Across America.
"Under water!" he shouted at them. Yes, they were swimming with their heads down.
He was also thrilled with our cousin's sailboat in all its glory with dress flags flying. He was sure they were kites. I couldn't convince him they were flags.
And so, we had a big weekend and one tuckered little "pooped out" man.
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