Sing it with me, people.
Today, the hubby came home after 48 hours in Louisiana for a golf tournament.
While he was gone, the girls ruled the roost. Nanna came into town for a Baby Girl fix, and to help a mother (me) out. We sang, we played, we napped, we potty-ed. But we did. not. poo. (And by "we," I mean Baby Girl).
She's gotten into the habit of poo-ing only every few days. It's a lovely (and by lovely, I mean terrible), new development that keeps Mama in a constant state of alert. You never know when the blowout is gonna happen. And it's usually at a very inconvenient time (like when I've just dressed her in a beautiful, pink silk dress and bloomers, with a perfect headband and oh-so-pretty matching shoes, so she can make an appearance at Daddy's office).
Anywho...the poo. It ain't flowing freely these days. And by this morning, we were ticking past the 72 hour mark. Or, quite possibly, the 96 hour mark--I just can't remember for sure, 'cause I'm sleep-deprived and brain-addled.
That's when I realized she was staging a Poo Protest. No Daddy, no poo. It's her only way to communicate annoyance these days. Well...that and crying, spitting up, arching her back and flailing her cute little limbs. But still--a poo strike is the strongest tactic in her arsenal.
Despite the protest, she was still happy enough to study the window this morning:
And to study the valance:
And to check in with her friend, the fan:
And to give this sly smile after her nap in the grocery store, when Mama put her back in her car seat:
But, she saved her true adoration for her beloved Daddy when he came home:
And an hour later, when Mama and Nanna fled the house for an hour of frantic errands before the next feeding, while Baby Girl spent some quality time with Daddy, she poo-ed.
Figures.
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