Toot toot!

It's all poop all the time here at the Morillo household. Not only are we going through about ten kagilion times the number of diapers and wipes that we were before, but we have become experts on poop. Scatological scientists. Flatu-saurs. Bowl-movement meteorologists. You get the picture. And you know it's not pretty.

First we have Renato, whose poor little body is in a battle against him. No matter how much he farts, cries, strains and squints, he seems to have a hard time going number two. Two visits to the doctor to discuss the problem, and then a consult with a pediatric specialist who ended up taking three small samples of Reni's large intestine. He didn't like it one bit, but I was the one who cried. While we wait for the results, we are celebrating every little bit of gas and poo that makes it out. Honestly, who knew being a parent would give you such GREAT fodder for embarrassing the little guy when he's older?!

And then there is Anika. She ran up to me two days ago with a huge smile, one hand on the back of her pants, going "toot! toot!" Did you fart? I asked her. No, she said. Did you go poop? She smiled and shook her head no. Do you have to go poopy? I asked her, holding my breath that perhaps she would be one of those genius children who just starts using the big girl potty all on her own without any work or assistance from me whatsoever. Ah, right. We did make it to the kiddie potty and she sat there for quite awhile, flipping through an old issue of Yoga Journal and acting quite the potty expert. What felt like three hours later, I finally convinced her to get off the pot already, since it was still empty and I have shit to do, people. One second -- I mean, literally, one second later -- a big pile of poo appeared on the floor not three inches from the bowl.

Well, it's a start. Since then we've had a poo in the hallway and a pee in the kitchen. I'm this close to laying out a piece of newspaper. Honestly, someone should write a book on the parallels between children and puppies.