Monday nights are Jill’s Automotive Fundamentals class nights, giving me and Noah prime one-on-one time together. This is both good and bad.

The early part of the evening went well. Noah had fun with his choo-choos, he didn’t vigorously resist eating dinner, and he actually ate a good amount of the food on his plate. (All the mac&cheese, most of the chicken, half of the sweet potato, 2 bites of parsnip.)

Noah didn’t even fight getting into the bath, or at least not much. He obviously would rather just run around his room naked, but there were no tears at being lowered into the bathtub.

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Once I had Noah naked, it occurred to me that now was a good time to satisfy my curiousity about his almost-21-month weight. So I convinced him to follow me into our bathroom, and to get on the scale. Unfortunately, it’s a scale you have to turn on and then stand still on to get a reading, so that didn’t work.

“I’ll just do it the way we did when Noah was a baby!” I thought, picking him up. When I stood on the scale holding Noah, I almost threw up. The number was higher than I ever hit pregnant: 200.5.

I put Noah down, and while he was sprinting for our closet, I got back on the scale: 170. A number I’ve never previously observed outside of pregnancy.

I’m going to start going to swim at the gym at 5:30am 3 mornings/week. (There’s a gym associated with the hospital 5 minutes from our house — not glamorous, but so what?) And I’m going to go handle the paperwork etc this morning, before the RE appointment.

Back to Noah: 30.5 lbs! He’s not my string bean/lollipop kid anymore! That’s somewhere in the 85-90 percentile range. We also unscientifically measured his height last weekend, and it’s roughly 34.5″, or in that same range.

When I started breathing again from the scale shock, I picked Noah up and we headed for the bath. While he was still enjoying splashing and “swimming” and making the choo-choo swim, I noticed a telltale piece of floating debris.

“Noah, are you pooping?”

“No.”

I peered around him. Yes.

Noah reached for the interesting piece of “dirt.”

“Noah! Do NOT touch that dirt!”

“Touch. Dirt!” he repeated, reaching for it.

I scooped him up, grabbing the washcloth to finish wiping. It was an unusually yucky poop, and somehow, he’d also gotten it on his feet.

“Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!” Noah yelled, reaching for the main pile.

“No! Yucky dirt! I answered, holding a squirming, wet, focused, poopy toddler. Thank god he’d tossed the choo-choo out of the tub a few minutes earlier.

For lack of a better idea, the poopy washcloth went back into the tub, and the probably-poopy towel went on the floor. Naked Noah went back into his room, where within 1 minute, he also peed on the carpet, and then began stamping his foot on the peed-on spot.

“Wait, Noah! Put this diaper stuff-in on the pee-pee first, then step on it.” That is, in fact, how I usually first clean up his floor-peeing accidents. Microfiber is amazing stuff.

That marked the end of naked time, much to Noah’s disappointment and frustration. Having a diaper and pjs on is nowhere near as much fun.

Fortunately, the rest of the evening was uneventful. And Noah adorably chose to fall asleep in his big boy bed. For the second night in a row. Without nursing.