Zoe has a new fascination with bird poop. This whole thing started when we had a bird family take residence in a new nest built on top of our front porch light. This porch light, mind you, is right by the front door. As you can imagine, a nest containing a mommy bird and her four babies leads to a pile of bird poop on the front step. I really didn't have the heart to give the birds the "boot," much as I hated dealing with the mess on the step, especially after peeking into the nest one day and seeing the four little fuzzy baby birdie heads poking out the top. So we just dealt with the poop. I would tell Zoe, "Don't step in the bird poop!" Every time we exited or entered the front door, Zoe had to point at the mess and proclaim "Bird poop!" I tried a variety of different methods to clean it up. One day I got out the hand held broom (which looks like an oversized brush) and dust pan to sweep it all up. I then left the broom/brush on the ground and took the pan full of poop to the trash bin to dump it. When I turned back around, there was Zoe trying to brush her hair with the broom as she stated "Brush!"
Another time I was trying to herd Zoe out the front door to go meet her Daddy at his office so I could head to work. Zoe had just awakened from her afternoon nap, and I had just enough time to get her dressed and ready to go so I wouldn't be late. I had made a fresh loaf of bread in the bread machine while Zoe napped, and had cut a slice for her to take in the car for a snack on our way. She clutched her bread in her little hand, and I clutched arms full of other stuff...Zoe's juice cup, my water bottle, my purse, my laptop computer, and of course Zoe's beloved "Taggie Book." I also had keys in hand ready to lock the door as soon as we could wedge ourselves out of it. As I pulled the door shut, I suddenly realized we had forgotten one very important item: Zoe's hat. We don't go anywhere without it, lest Zoe come unglued. I quickly surveyed the cirumstances. If I left Zoe standing outside while I went in to grab it, she would probably pitch a fit. However, it had taken me ten minutes to get her out the door in the first place, and I was fast approaching the "I'm going to be late" mark on the clock. I also had my arms so full of gear and assorted items that I could not gracefully, in any sense of the word, quickly duck back inside and find an appendage with which to grab the hat. "Oh shoot!" I muttered (being careful not to say "Oh crap!" although I really wanted to say at least that much and preferable something much more crass). I quickly told Zoe I was going to grab her hat and be right back. Quick as a flash I was headed back out the door just as Zoe was trying to make her way back up the front step to the door to check on my progress. Next thing I knew Zoe had tripped and was lying in the pile of bird poop, her little fist still clutching her bread, trying to protect it from the fall. This time it really took all my self control not to say "Oh crap!" and much more colorful things!
I had now reached the "I'm going to be late" point, but much as I was tempted to, I couldn't just haul my child, covered in bird poop, to her Daddy's office and let him deal with it. Besides that, her bread, which she so lovingly tried to protect, had also managed to reach the bird poop mess. Fast as I could, I dropped everything right in the doorway and swooped her up under my arm, her arms and legs flailing as she wailed, wrenched the poopy bread out of her hands before she tried to take a bite, and held her over the sink to wash her down before I could finally get her and all the gear loaded into the car. Of course I had to also pause long enough to cut her a new slice of bread.
Yes, bird poop was becoming an everyday phrase, not to mention an every day occurance around our house.
A couple weeks later, I walked in the door after spending an evening at work, and Zoe ran to greet me with an oven mit. She had been in the kitchen "helping" Daddy. She exhuberantly pointed at a stain (which was actually spaghetti sauce, mind you) and proudly announced, "Bird poop! Bird poop!" "Oh dear," I said wearily to my husband, who was smirking in the background. "How did we manage to get bird poop on the oven mit?" Although I was certain that Zoe was mistaken about what the stain on the oven mit really was, I think I would not have been surprised if Brian had said it was indeed bird poop and had some crazy tale about how this may have happened. I have to admit, ever since Zoe joined our family very little surprises me anymore.