I poop on you

I got pooped on yesterday.

There I was, just minding my own business, standing with Jack on the porch, watching Josh build a new retaining wall on our patio, when WHAMMO, it's poop on Mommy time.

I heard this particular Jack poop, as we hear almost all of his poops -- he is what you might call an "explosive pooper" -- and I laughed and said to him, "Wow kiddo, that was a good one."

And he smiled and kicked his legs like, "You know it sister."

So we stood there a few more minutes until I figured it was time to go inside and change him. So I took him up to the changing table and he was going through his usual "I love being changed" routine of bicycling his legs and talking to the stars on his ceiling when I saw there was poop on his shorts when I took them off.

And then I saw the back of his shirt had poop on it too.

And in slow motion, I looked down at my own outfit, which now was streaked with neon yellow poop.

Which is good times.

He of course found this amusing and expressed his thoughts on the subject with something that sounded like "goo ahh eeee." Which I imagine is baby babble, roughly translated as "Ha, you have poop on your shirt Mom. Gross."