Let's take a minute to talk about poo.

Now, I would consider myself a grown man, and in all my years of existence I've only really known of one socially acceptable place to deposit human excrement - the commode. Having said that, follow me to last night. For those of you who don't know, I have a little daughter named, Berlin. She is the cutest little stinker I've ever seen. Recently, however, she's been going through what our pediatrician calls, "Toddler Diarrhea." Sounds pleasant, doesn't it?

So last night I was giving her a bath. All of a sudden she looked up at me, got a concentrated/determined look in her eye and started grunting. My heart sank. It was the poo look. Doing what any good husband/father would, I quickly yelled for Mommy. But it was too late.

Tub poo.

I sounded the alarm and began evacuation measures. I picked up Berlin and set her on the bathroom floor. Baby instincts kicked in and she took off screaming, limbs akimbo, down the hallway and out into the living room, buck nakie. I tried to save every tub toy I could. Sadly, there were casualties.

I then retrieved some rubber gloves from the closet (that I rightfully stole from the LDS Hospital birthing suite 15 months ago) and, with my dignity completely in check, fished out the feci (I believe that's plural for feces). Once that was done, we poo bombed the whole place with some high-powered disinfectant. Meanwhile, Berlin was none the wiser, flinging peach chunks all over the kitchen.

It is with this story in mind that I'd like to officially change the cliche saying of, "A baby changes everything" to "A baby changes everything unless you commonly poo in your tub, in which case, a baby only changes a few things."