Madeline has been pushing every limit known to babies recently. We love her to the moon and back, but oh Lordy, she's wearing Eric and I down to the nubs.
For example, she's been finding ways to avoid bedtime. When we go upstairs, she runs into our bedroom or the bathroom before we can lure her into her room. Then we have to wrestle her into her pajamas. She loves reading books and rocking in her chair, so that's no problem, but when it's time to stop reading, she whines and flails her body off my lap. She then pretends to examine some previously ignored toy in the corner of her room. Finally, when I get her in to bed, she plays with her stuffed animals and reads some books to herself before resorting to calling for us.
A recent trick of hers has been to cry, "Poo-poos! Poo-poos!" from her crib. She's a smart cookie and she knows that if she says it enough, one of us will go up and check her diaper. About 100 percent of the time, she has no poo-poos.
Last night, I had been ignoring her sporadic calls of "Poo-poos! Poo-poos!" for a good twenty minutes before her cries turned desperate, and I decided to give in and check on her.
I entered her room to find her standing up in her crib, her shirt wrapped up behind her neck, her arms flailing wildly above her head, doing her best Beavis and Butthead Cornholio impression. I guess she got stuck trying to take her top off. She was not happy.
As I bent down to untangle her, I also realized that she had gone poo-poos after all.
Palm. Smack. Forehead. Well played, Madeline. Well played. My Mumma guilt will ensure that I check on you more frequently in the future.
The baby who cried, "Poo-poo," ladies and gentleman.
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