Poop.

I had explosive, gut-wrenching, stomach cramps so bad you swear you are seeing Jesus, jet-propelled diarrhea tonight.

How's that for an opener?

I don't know what caused it, other than karmic retributions for yelling at an old lady in traffic to "go die with dignity already" last week, but dude, it freaking SUCKED. And not only did it suck, but it occurred on the one night that A was working late, so it was me, my furious anus, and the Punky, who was in no mood whatsoever to go along with Mommy's constant bathroom runs.

Punky does not DO being "put down." At least not for the 45 minutes required to completely expel the angry, liquidy contents of my bowels and read through an entire issue of Star magazine. So I utilized the only viable option I had -- I plopped her in her walker (oh my god, that thing is a godsend) and put her in front of the bathroom door. Watching me. As I pooped.

I mean, I guess it's only fair. I've cleaned her butt enough times that statistics have proven accurate and she's pooped/peed on me. At one point she started laughing -- yes, my daughter was laughing at and mocking me as I was doubled over in diarrhea-tastic pain -- and I groaned in pain, "Look, everyone poops, kid."

It's a strange feeling, having an infant laughing at you while you are in pain with explosive diarrhea. Give it five years and she'll probably be killing cats and hiding them under the back shed. Which if we're still living in this house in three years (please, if there is a god out there, PLEASE NO), there will be plenty of random irritating cats running around courtesy of Creep Cat Guy, and I don't know if I'd necessarily discourage her behavior. Dear God, I may have a mini-sociopath on my hands.

This is because we had sex while she slept next to us in the bed, isn't it?