It seems that when it comes to little ones, every time you raise your arms in victory, there's a doom troll lurking behind a hidden door. That troll just waits until you think you've worked out some sweet deal with your kid, no matter how small or great, and then it comes out and junk punches you for good measure. What in the world does that mean, and where does the poo poo platter come in? Well, it kind of goes along with the last post about taking two steps back for every step forward.
This time, it's like the best of sleeping, teething, and eating solids all came together into a perfect two weeks of bliss for us and Scout. The first two teeth were solidly in and the next six (that's right, six) were on the verge of breaking through but waiting patiently; first attempts at feeding solids went well; Ferberizing resulted in 12 hours of sleep a night after only two nights of crying and working through the pain. Not too shabby, but it was short lived and naturally involves poop.
After two weeks of having our sleep interrupted only by ghost cries and first time parent paranoia, the next couple teeth started coming in. On top of that, Scout was solidly eating oatmeal, green beans, and sweet potato each day. So, new foods and new teeth kind of interrupted the whole sleep thing, but it was still pretty good, until the day I waited too long to respond to an early morning cry. I was silly to think she was just looking for a pacifier at 5am. Turns out that the solids, after brewing in her belly for a couple days, came flowing forth in abundance. As I ventured half dazed into her room, the smell hit me. In comes doom troll, winding up the jab.
I took her downstairs to change the diaper and start the day, but I was not fully prepared for what I was about to encounter. Her fleece PJs hold in a great deal of matter as it turns out, because when I unzipped those little footed jammies, there was poop. Up the front, round the sides, up the back nearly to the neck, and partly down the legs, all there just waiting. At that point, clean hands don't matter so I dove right in, scooping and using up nearly an entire Costco sized package of wipes. The last time I gagged like that was when I spent too much time hunting Wild Turkey with my friend Jack Daniels, but there was no sleeping this one off. Naturally, she thought I was playing and making fun faces, so she laughed. I did not, but I can't hold it against her. I raised my arms, not in victory, but in surrender. Junk punch complete, doom troll satisfied.
