A friend from Bangalore has just come over (yes, the 4.5 hour drive each way went BEAUTIFULLY, especially because it was KM who went into the wrong exits, and missed turns, NEVER me! I can crow about it endlessly now.) and DnA, who had gone shopping, came back and A went to change her.

A was changing K…and K pooped again, wetting her new diaper.

A was changing K again…and K pooped again, wetting her new diaper and her changing station mat.

A was changing K again…and K (insert regular words here), wetting her new diaper, her changing station mat, and her clothes.

A was changing K again…and K (….) wetting her new diaper, her changing station mat, her clothes, and her hair.

Don’t ask me how, this is D’s version of what happened, and I am sorry to say I laughed out loud instead of commiserating with my poor daughter!

That reminded me of some “children and poop” stories…

We loved a neighbour’s son when we lived in Convent Road, and he spent a lot of time at our place, and was truly like a son to me. Once, after he ate, he had to go poop…and when I was washing him, he remarked seriously, “Please wash me from the back, not from the front. I am growing up and am feeling shy.”

This same fellow was in another friend’s house and was obviously very worried that he had dirtied his pants and what his mother would say about it. So when the parents returned, he ran into a drawing room full of people with his dirty underwear, showing it proudly, exclaiming, “See, Ma! I didn’t dirty my chaddy too much! It’s only just a little!”

And my dear daughter once wrote in a school essay, “When we go to school, we have to wear a dark brown skirt and striped shit.”