pooping

With babies comes poop, in all of its incarnations.
So far we've gone from the beach tar-ish meconium to the greenish transition poops to amber curds of breast milk poop.
And nothing stinks yet, which is greatly appreciated when his feet get loose on the changing table and he pounds his heels on the dirty diaper like a pint sized Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance.

The wife roused me at 2am last night to try and put the baby to bed.
While sitting in the glider attempting vainly to still his lusty howling with pattings and rockings and shushings, he pooped at the very height of his most operatic shriek.

It went something like this:

eeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAA
*pskeeeeewurrrrrrrt*
AAAAAAAAaaaaaeeeeee!


The wife heard me laughing all the way in the bedroom.
Entertaining, if not restful.

Earlier in the evening we had a nice family pantomime session in bed, with our little darling displaying an impressive range of faces during the intervals of a multi-stage poop.

Ppppbbt
*brow furrowed like an angry old man castigating whippersnappers from his porch*
BBBBBBBbbbbbppht
*eyebrows arched, face beatific like a meditating yogi*
HrrrRRRUUUUUPt!
*look of intensely focused concentration, like Kasparov confronting Big Blue*
Pssssssssssssssht
*absolute deadpan, like a poker player trying a bluff*

Who says poop isn't a laughing matter!