So I'm laying on the couch yesterday with my feet propped on my husband.  Ever since we have been trying to sell the house, we put all our furniture into storage so that prospective buyers would enter our humble abode and not realize that it is a 1400 sq ft. shoebox.  That means that only one person can lie down on the couch and the other person has to squish into the corner of the couch and prop his feet on one of The Boy's toys, where an ottoman used to be. 

So I'm lying there yesterday when I get a whiff of something less than attractive.

K:  Did you fart?
D:  No?
K:  No?  You don't know if the answer is No? or you are fashioning an answer in your head as fast as you can, which is not very fast at all.
D:  No (more definitively).
K:  Do you have poops in your pants?
E:  Yeah.
K:  Are you saying "yeah" because you do, or because that is your new favorite word?
E:  Yeah.
K:  Do you know what "yeah" even means?
E:  Yeah.
K:  What does "yeah" mean?
E:  Yeah.

The Boy has a point.

D:  He can't have poops in his diaper, I just changed him.
K:  He had a pound and a half of grapes.  He can have poops in his diaper.

With that, The Boy bent over, picked something off the ground, and handed it to me.

Poop.

I ran screaming into the lav to flush it.  D checked his diaper.  No poops.  So is it sicker that he handed it to me or that it was at my feet for some indeterminable time? 

Children are nasty.