Scene: The family relaxes in the living room after dinner. A gastrointestinal sonic boom disturbs the peace.
Nichole: Ew! We’re going to have to get rid of the futon.
Rockford: It’s a poot-on!
In related news …
Poppy seems to have inherited her father’s gaseous fortitude (fartitude, perhaps?). We’ve been trying to get her to say “pardon me” after she has an indiscretion. It isn’t working very well. Here’s a typical call and response after such an incident:
Nichole: What do we say?
The firm Perry Mason worked with this summer called him this afternoon to let him know they’re offering him a job! Yay, Perry Mason! He’ll graduate in May and head South sometime thereafter. I’m so proud of him!
When we moved last weekend, we didn’t set up the crib in Poppy’s room. We set up a twin bed, returned the crib to its rightful owner and crossed our fingers.
And it worked.
Poppy made the move to her “big-girl bed” with no problem at all. She’s been falling asleep with very little trouble at night, and she hasn’t gotten up to play in the middle of the night or the wee hours of the morning.
The one hitch in our collective giddy-up has been naptime. The only naps she took last week were in the car. She was content to sit in her bed for about 30 minutes, but there was no sleeping going on. Not in the middle of the day. Not when Daddy was home, just waiting to Play!Play!Play!
Today, though, is Daddy’s first day at his new job. And just like that, the nap is back. Maybe I should feel bad about that — the fact that the prospect of an afternoon with me isn’t exciting enough to override Poppy’s need to nap.
It’s hard to feel bad when you get to take a nap of your very own, though.