Self-respect? Funny. I had that once.

I've been working on my daughter's sleep pattern for a while now...basically, since she was born. Recently I've made some headway, mostly because she's old enough to be making progress despite my blundering efforts and also because I've managed to move her bedtime up significantly. It's still under development, though, and some mornings she ends up in our bed so I can coax the last hour or two of sleep out of her and not start the day at 5:30 AM.

This is not without hazards.

The most common side effect is my day does in fact start at some ungodly hour, when the sun has risen and therefore, in my baby's mind, crib time is over, but sleep is still required. It is difficult to sleep sitting up with a baby in your lap. At least, I find it difficult.

Another pitfall is that at night, when Cadence is snuggled safely in her crib in the other room, I dream that she is snuggled suffocating and crushed between our massive, unwieldy adult bodies, and I panic. I've managed to get this under control to the point where I gently pat down all the bedding, reassuring my semi-conscious self that I am surrounded by mere blankets, not squished baby, and then further calm myself by simply looking at the baby monitor. This is another work in progress, as Bob can attest to. On more than one occasion I have accused him of smushing our baby when, in fact, the "baby" I am feeling underneath him is his own stomach.

The worst hazard, though, is the morning poo.

Not hers, although that can be wrought with peril too.

No. I mean my poo.

Once upon a glorious time, my poo came on a predictable schedule, interrupted or disrupted only by the consumption of alcohol or irresponsible amounts of spice.

Pregnancy threw a fat wrench in that timetable; giving birth added haemorrhoids. I may write an entire entry on those painful bastards one day, but for now, the memory is too fresh.

So now, I poo whenever it strikes my bowels' fancy. I don't mean to imply I have lost all control of my pooing; just that it is not on a nice convenient schedule any more. And I've lost a bit of control. Some control. More control than I care to admit anywhere except a public blog.

Wait. What?

Sometimes the fancy strikes when I've just managed to get my darling angel back to sleep and she is finally, at last, after 45 minutes of whining and half-nursing and punching me, peacefully, adorably, beautifully snoozing on my lap.

And then I have to poo.

So bad.

Right now.

My mantra goes something like this:

I am the master of my own bowels.

I will not crap my pants.

I AM THE MASTER OF MY OWN BOWELS.

I will NOT crap my pants.

Meanwhile, I look desperately at the toilet, mocking me from a mere seven feet away. I begin to contemplate my options.

Can I hit it from here? Unlikely. Must consider an alternative.

I once successfully carried my baby on her nursing pillow to the washroom and did my business without waking her. It was a feat that Indiana Jones himself would admire. It is not likely to ever be repeated.

I can sometimes maneuver her onto the bed beside me without her waking and not only use the washroom, but do other stuff like attend to my personal hygiene and put on daytime clothes.  It's risky business though, and her sleep is so precious that it is only in a moment of dire need that I attempt this path.

A moment such as when I realize, as a fully functional, grown adult who generally takes care of herself, that I am not the master of my own bowels.

I have indeed crapped myself.

Then I am faced with the decision...

Accept what I've done and maintain the sleep?

Or shed a tear for my lost dignity, bite my lip in determination and move...that...baby!

At that point, really, it doesn't matter. Little matters when you are faced with the reality that you are steeping in your own fecal matter.

And on this very special edition of "Oops I crapped my pants": to add insult to injury, my dog had diarrhea and shit all over his fur, and I had to clean that up, and then my darling child dumped a load worthy of sonnets into her pants and I wiped that up too.

My life has indeed changed a lot.

Moral of this story: the family that poos together, stays together. Or at least has their butts wiped together.