Party Pooper

It's not a party until a kid poops on your floor. Yep.

At least this is what we are telling my mother.

My mother hosted the boys, Chris and me over for a pre-holiday dinner on Sunday. Our plan was to exchange gifts before the craziness that is our holiday celebration. (Or perhaps we have only added to the craziness by making Christmas one more day/event long. At this point my boys think Christmas is a string of days, fueled only by presents and decorated cookies.)

We had a great evening. Dinner, wine, a smorgasbord of desserts, it was all lovely. Aidan's favorite part was drinking his fruit juice out of a wine glass and chatting with the adults like he was seventeen instead of seven. My favorite part was a mom who knows how to serve a good pinot noir. (And my cute new fiesta ware. My dinnerware - it's a fiesta!)

Griffin's favorite part was when he realized he had (ahem) a little accident on Grandma JoJo's carpet. And his sock. And his pants. And the floor. Oh boy - oh poop. Griffin definitely brought new meaning to the term party pooper.

Thankfully, Grandma JoJo handled the pooping with grace and dug through the stockpile of presents to locate the cool new Buzz Lightyear undies and new jeans to outfit Griffin. She even found a pair of ankle socks from her drawer that G just loved.

I guess it's not really a party until someone poops. At least that's what we are telling ourselves. This may cut down on our holiday invites for next year.