Poop

It's amazing how much poop you can tolerate as a parent. Poop on your hands, poop on shoes, poop anywhere and everywhere. Tonight we went out for a little dinner, Italian ice, and time at the very cool church playground. It was while on this very cool playground equipment that Owen declared, "I pooped." At the time, I was paused at the top of a slide, encouraging him to follow me down. He had already pooped today (and is usually a one poop a day kind of guy), so I assumed that he really meant that he pooted. So I calmly explained, "It's okay to poot on the slide." So he follows me down, gleeful all the way. We both climb back up the steps, and I encourage him to race me down the parallel slides, to which to replies, "I pooped again." This time I decide to actually take a peek down the back of the diaper, and lo and behold, there is some poop in there. Unfortunately, I didn't take the time to think my next action through. I encouraged him to go down the slide. Bad, bad idea. Poop no longer contained in the diaper. Or in the shorts even. Poop now dripping onto the shoes. Poop on the mulch. Gotta love it.