There are really no words to describe the overwhelming sense of pride a father feels the first time he sees his child shit all the way across a room.
I’ve been boasting about this for a week. “Okay, so imagine our table is the changing station,” I told one friend over lunch in a restaurant. “So the baby is here, right? And that dessert cart, the one way over there, is like the bedroom wall. And he pooped on it! It was awesome.”
The Squirrelly has also discovered the ability to shriek. His interest in shrieking seems mostly academic at this point: he’s just, like, “Wow hey: there’s, like, two whole octaves up there that I haven’t even explored!” Still, it’s always unnerving when he goes from “fast asleep” to “carbon monoxide alarm” in under a second. He doesn’t do it often, thank goodness, and even when he does it seems to be in a “I just wanted to remind you that I know how to do this, and if I ever go colicky you are going to be miserable” kind of way. He’s like a little North Korea, flaunting his nuclear capacity.