This week has been slow at work, which means that my brain needs some action. The only notable event of my weekend was being pooped on by poor Natalie. It was worse for her than me. We were reading a musical nursery rhyme book when I smelled a suspicious odor. Assuming that her panties were in control of the situation, I jokingly asked “Natalie, are you pooping on mama?” Then I lifted her off my lap to see an exceptionally large glob of poop had escaped her pants and was now sitting in my lap. Natalie was speechless – which is rare for Natalie. As my husband was carrying her off to the bathroom while I tried to stand up without transferring the glob of stink from my jeans to the carpet, she grabbed onto both his ears and looked him directly in the face. With a worried look in her eyes, she asked him “Daddy, did I poopie on mama?” A tear rolled off her nose before Bernie, desperately trying to stifle hysterics, told her in all seriousness “Yes, but mama will be OK.” If some kind of emotional trauma was the problem with our potty training, this weekend was definitely two steps back.