There are those times in my journey as a parent that make me so proud and make my heart so happy it feels like my heart may burst right open from all the love. The first time Munchkin said "mama", the first time he said "I love you", the first time he learned to blow kisses, and when he still likes to snuggle and tell me he loves me even though he's 4 1/2 (seriously, when did that happen?).
This is not one of those times.
Our nightly routine consists of Hubs putting Munchkin to bed, then I go in to snuggle, sing a few songs and get him some water before he drifts off to sleep. His room is dark when I enter with just a small light emanating from his airplane night light. I lay down on his bed and peel the covers back from where he's made himself an igloo and I can see the outline of his sweet face. He extends his hand out into the darkness and I go to hold his hand. Except for there's something in his hand. I ask with trepidation "Bubba, what is that?"
It's shit. My child is not extending his hand so we can snuggle close, he's handing me a palm full of shit. He had pooped in his diaper (yes, my 4-year-old still wears a diaper over night), didn't want it touching his skin so he got a tissue, pulled the poop out of his diaper, and was waiting for me to come in so I could change him.
This is what parental dreams are made of, people.