Ya think I want to write about Poop every other f*ckin day?

Before dawn this morning, Tito sauntered into our bedroom wearing his Spongebob jammies. I noticed that it looked like Spongebob had been stabbed. There was what aapeared to be dried brown blood smeared all over Tito's jammie shirt. There was nothing on his hands or anywhere else on him, and it didn't smell funny or anything, but there wasn't enough on it to really know. I couldn't figure out what it was.


EXHIBIT A:












EXHIBIT B:













I kept asking him what happened, and he kept saying in a typical four-year-old singsong voice, "I dunno..." so I thought maybe he got a bloody nose in the middle of the night and he wiped it on his sleeves. Or maybe he at a Tofutti Cutie without my permission. Or maybe he threw up a little. I had no idea. I made him take the shirt off, and I put another one on him and went back to bed.

After the sun came up, Tito called from the bathroom for someone to wipe him. I asked R to do it and I'd go get the kids' clothes and get them dressed. There, I noticed that Tito's bed had an unusual stain on it. I called him in to the room and asked him if it was what I was starting to think it was. Yes, it was indeed POOP.


EXHIBIT C:













I am completely BAFFLED. I can't understand how he could have poop in his bed, on his pajama shirt and nowhere else. I've tried to come up with plausible scenarios that might explain this bizarre phenomenon, and I just can't. It's impossible. There wasn't poop in his underpants or on his hands or legs or anywhere it might logically appear if he did, in fact, poop his pants and decide to paint with it. It makes no sense whatsoever.

It is The Mystery Poop.


As much as I wish it wasn't, Poop is, unfortunately, a recurring theme on my blog... and in my life. Believe me, I don't like it any more than you do.

I write about Poop more often than I write about knitting. How pathetic is that? They're gonna kick me out of the Midwest Knitters blogring.

Maybe I should start a blogring for goofy moms like me who deal with Poop every day. I could call it Shit Disturbers!

Nah, never mind... that's got DISASTER written all over it.
In brown.