That’s the title of Darwin’s book about poop.
When you lose power for a week, your creativity blooms.
Parents could talk about their children’s bowel movements for hours. The subject could fill an entire dinner conversation. It could wind itself into a preacher’s sermon. Maybe not a political speech, but I tend not to listen to those types of orations anyway. I have dedicated many hours to describing, in as tasteful terms as possible, the evolution of my boys’ poop.
Now, it seems as though I have only one left to talk about, because Noah has essentially potty trained himself. The prospect of an M&M reward for his bathroom efforts has proved to be to great an enticement. Not to mention the fraternal pride in strutting around with a mouthful of candy in front of Sam and Aidan.
The horizon holds promise. It holds celebration. It holds a life free from the bonding strips of disposable diapers. It holds a life where all three of my children will wipe themselves.
P.S. For the second day in a row, Blooger (misspelled on purpose and henceforth for eternity) has refused to upload my photos. I'm goin' to get me a Flikr account this afternoon.