Edith likes to stick things in my mouth — food she is enjoying, to be companionable; food she is not enjoying, with a sort of “here, I know you like this” attitude; her toys, because she thinks it’s funny when I spit them at her.
This morning she woke up about an hour earlier than I was expecting, and as I had stayed up late doom-scrolling for the fourth night in a row, I was really not feeling getting up, so I did my usual stalling techniques:
I put her in bed with me and tried to cuddle her back to sleep. When that inevitably failed, I let her romp around, mess with the blinds, throw everything handy down behind the headboard. When she wanted down, I put her on the floor and let her destroy the place. She emptied the bedside drawer and threw its contents into her crib, then went full havoc on the diaper station. I hung a hand over the bed as she emptied an entire packet of wipes, and carried them over to me two at a time until it looked as though my outstretched hand had been buried in a damp snowdrift.
Then, I put her back in the bed and showed her Twitter for awhile.
Eventually she wore out even on that, so extreme was my stalling this morning, and began to romp around the bed again. By this time, it was a full hour since she had gotten up.
Then, she pushed something onto my (mercifully closed) mouth. I couldn’t see her coming with it because she had pitched my glasses under the bed long ago, but I could still smell.
It was a tiny poop.
After that, I got up with a quickness.
Accismus 