Yesterday we were getting ready to go out, everybody putting on shoes, rounding up supplies, getting Noah to choose a small toy to bring…you know, the regular routine. I open the door, start ushering Noah out, and Teresa looks at me and says, “Are we bringing Desi?”
Calmly sitting in the other room, oblivious to the world, is little Desmond.
“Oh yeah. Yeah, we should probably bring him.”
See, this is how my mind starts to internalize things. Teresa was in love with Desi and dreaming of her new four piece family within weeks of finding out. I, on the other hand, am like a fine wine. Facts must age in my brain until they’re ready for use.
As we load into the car, the old process of buckling Noah in has now expanded to buckling Noah in and getting Desi locked in. I try to avoid the second part, as putting a newborn into a car seat is akin to fitting potato chip into a change purse. It looks like it could fit, but your pretty sure something will snap in the process.
So while it used to be “Me and Tree and the boy” now it’s “Me and Tree and Noah and Desi.” It’s no longer “Noah is an addition to our couple.” It’s “We are clan Bullard.” We are a traveling troupe. Matching t-shirts would almost be appropriate.
After a long struggle (search “poop” and see how many posts come up) Noah has finally come to terms with the fact that poo belongs in the toilet. Turns out the breaking point was simply lying about the world’s supply of Noah-sized diapers. We warned him that we were running low, and that soon he’d be forced to poop in the toilet. It was a game of human waste chicken. Who would blink first?
Noah held out until the very last diaper, and then only held it in for a day before finally deciding the toilet wasn’t the spawn of satan (in regards to poop…peeing in the toilet has been no problem for months.) I got a call at work from a tiny voice saying, “DADDY I POOPED IN THE TOILET!!!” This time it wasn’t a wrong number.
So my life has changed in a very good way. I haven’t had to clean up anything resembling adult poop in over a week. It’s almost weird. He’s tells us when he’s going about 50% of the time, so sometimes you’ll just walk in on him, or it will be really quiet, and you’ll get suspicious.
“I NEED PRIVACY!”