My intentions are good and earnest and true, but under my hood is internal combustion power

Nick sent this picture to me in an email the other day with the subject "We need to get this for Jordan."

Poo continues to dominate our household conversation.

"Jordan, would you like milk or juice?"

"How about..." little grin "...poopy water!"

And then of course you have to make a terrible face and exclaim how yucky that idea is and how we would never drink poopy water! And he's all kinds of delighted with himself.

Jordan still insists on coming to the bathroom with you, and he always says, with hope in his voice, "What are you making?"

If you tell him you have to pee, he'll say, "Would you like to poop?"

As if you're ordering dinner and he's offering you an appetizer. Like, you'll suddenly be all, you know, now that you mention it, I would like to poop!

He's inordinately pleased when you do. And he'll commend you on it. He'll report on your accomplishment. "Daddy had an EMORmous poop! You did a good job, Daddy!"

The most inconvenient part of this fascination, in my opinion, is the demand to show him the poop in his diaper. "I want to see!" Because let me tell you, it's both horrendously disgusting and not particularly easy to hold a diaper full of vileness up, tipped just enough so the reclining boy can get an eyeful.

And in this endeavor, Betty accidentally dropped Jordan's poop on him the other day. Plop. Right on his shirt.

I bought him this incredibly cute London bus shirt for Christmas. He was wearing it the day of The Incident.

For days and days afterwards, whenever he'd see the shirt he'd say, rather excitedly, "Nana dropped poop on my bus!"