The youngest pooped in her crib and took her diaper off. There. It's out there. I ripped the band-aid right off.
I can't believe she did it. Her cry woke me up this morning. She was unusually upset. Normally she wakes up and plays with her toys a few minutes, starts talking to herself (mumbling really). When she's ready for D or me, she'll start whining. Rarely does she cry to get out of bed. But this morning the cry was urgent. Like, "Get up here now! There's this stuff in my bed that stinks!"
When I opened her door, I saw she was cowered in the corner of her bed. Her gown was gathered around her waist. My eyes adjusted to the room's darkness and that's when I saw it. Poop. Like deer poop ... only bigger. Drops of poop in a couple of different places, and the youngest sitting in the corner like a puppy in a crate.
I scooped her up careful not to touch her little bottom to my clean gown (you know how I love my sleepwear). I carried her downstairs and told D what happened. He said, "Oh Eliza. You're nasty." If she could have understood what he said, I suspect she would of hit him. Hard.
After cleaning and diapering her, and covering the diaper with shorts so she couldn't rip this one off, I left her with D so I could clean the muddy mess. Poopy droplets were placed neatly on blankets. So I just lifted the blankets and dumped the loot in the toilet. One quick flush and it's bye-bye to the nasty nuggets. Then I stripped her bed, made one big pile of smelly linens and tossed them downstairs.
I then went to check on her and make sure she had recovered fully from this traumatic experience. She was grinning ear to ear. I guess she was feeling pretty good with a dry bottom, a bottle and snuggling next to D. That's when I realized, cleaning her poop out of the crib was only traumatic to me. "You little ..." I growled with a snarled lip and squinted eyes. "You're lucky you're cute."
Tonight, she's wearing PJ bottoms to bed.
