Happy Friday? Poopoo.

My 19-month old daughter was up late last night, crying for no discernible reason…sometimes she just wants me in the room, I guess-whether I am rocking and crying to myself in a corner or not.

Thus, this morning was no picnic. She was clingy (which I am totally cool with, I’ll take the snuggles where and while I can!), and pitching a fit when I tried to put her down to get her milk/breakfast/blanket/dressed/washed/brushed. Have you had to dress a crying, squirming toddler in your lap yet? Then you know my morning.

Now, I am not a ‘helicopter’ parent. If she is crying for a reason, I am all over it. If she is crying because she can, I see it as a good opportunity to practice her patience skills while I do what I need to do, for her or for me. I try to talk her through it, and for the most part it works…and by “works” I mean I get what I need to done while she screams, including dragging her out to the car at 6:45 a.m. so all the neighbors can share my aural joys.

Of course, as soon as we walked in the door of her daycare, she was all smiles. Which makes me happy, since it means she loves her daycare, but also makes me kind of look like an asshole when I tell the daycare provider that she is cranky. I haven’t even had a sip of the coffee my awesome partner made for me before he escaped the onslaught left for work.

I sat down at the daycare for a few minutes to chat and finally have a sip of my coffee, and (considering our morning) I was not at all surprised to be handed this by my daughter, with her polite request to “Read it? Poopoo?”:

 

So it can only go up from here, non???

I need some commiseration today…tell me your poop stories!!! Literal or otherwise…it just has to include the word poop. Poop. Poopoo. Pooh.

 

*On a side note, On the previous page, it shows this same group of animals’ faces, with the sentence (or a reasonable facsimile of – no plagiarism here!) “Since all living things eat, all living things poop.” And, I kid you not, the lion/tiger/big cat whatever was literally tearing the flesh off of something that had ribs. Ribs that were in the picture, bare of flesh. I don’t know who to feel worse for or be more scared of, the writer or the illustrator.

 

 

 

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