Sometimes Lyla wakes up too early, and what results is a half-clothed father with wet hair and no deodorant running up the stairs. My apologies if that has you feeling flushed.
This morning Julie dealt with the early wake-up, entering the nursery stealthily and tossing fallen binkies into the crib like grenades. Downstairs I engaged in post-shower banalities and listened to the baby monitor as Lyla said, "Mama! Mama! Mama!" and then "WAAAAAH!" as Julie presumably exited. Moments later, it was quiet.
When I went upstairs at the proper time to wake up Lyla, I could smell immediately what had woken her up in the first place. Moments later it was confirmed: the child's diaper was filled with solid matter roughly one quarter the size of Mount Rushmore. In the parlance of our household, she poop-woke.
Typical nap-time conversation:
Julie: Lyla's crying.
Dan: She can't be done sleeping already.
Julie: Yeah, it's only been 45 minutes. I think she poop-woke.
Dan: Nose goes.
That's why it's so lovely to be a housebroken person. Seriously, when was the last time you awoke to Teddy Roosevelt's head shooting out of your colon?
Don't answer that.
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