The joke's on me

Did I happen to write a while back that YaYa had the potty-training thing locked down? Ha ha ha!

Did I write about Leaf's extraordinary ability to poo in the toilet at six months? Ho ho ho!

(He was, actually, able to do this without fail for four months, but stopped when the fact that he became too antsy to sit on the toilet collided with a case of the squirts when he became sick.)

Why do I always end up writing about poo? There are so many things that I haven't covered, but it's as if I NEED to write about poo, as if I'm driven to it.

Leaf has been liberal with his pooping, lately. He's very generous. Even generous about spreading his preferred times of pooping all the way around the clock, so that I am extremely lucky and I get to wake up at 3:42 AM to wipe his little bum. The fun thing is that sometimes it is not only his little bum, since he has taken to having his poo cover him from neck to knees. Leaf. Darling. Is that really necessary?

And YaYa. Well, we both fell off the wagon a bit, and she has not been using the toilet, to put it mildly.  All of my efforts to help her relearn have been very frustrated. There are puddles of pee on the floor thirty-two times a day. I do eighty-four loads of laundry per week. And the poo! The conversations go like this:
YaYa sister: I pooped!

Me: (leaping up from whatever I'm doing) You did? In your undies? YaYa! Okay. Don't move a muscle. Stay right there, I'll go get the wipes...

And on it goes. I think you can see why I prefer to write about poo. It is my only recourse. It happens all the time. I sometimes feel as though I am wading through a vat of diapers and wipes. I am ready for change, ready for the diapers to go. I am sure that any of you with your babies in diapers are ready, too.