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My son is an artist. Sam has always expressed interest in singing and drawing. I like to think he gets his creativity from me. He would color all day or draw for hours. It should come to no surprise to me then that he decided to decorate his room.

Problem is, his medium of choice is poop.

For the past two days he has decided to finger paint his bed and anything else around him. Lucky me. He is very proud of his work--and well he should be. He has a feel for symmetry. There were no stray marks anywhere--every mark was neatly balanced by another mark.

Yesterday he used the post-nap time for his work. I thought he was just playing in bed. so I didn't rush in to him. I should have. The smell of poop nearly knocked me flat. By the time he began bellowing, he had poop under his fingernails and on his forehead. As soon as I walked into the room he began to flap his arms and call out "Mommy, Mommy" in a tiny voice filled with pride. He was, of course, immediatley whisked away to the shower. He was offended by this--maybe he wasn't finished, who knows.

This morning, Jay came and told me that Sam was calling for me, so I went to get him. As I opened the door, I asked him how he was doing. This was before yet another wave of noxious fumes smacked me in the face upon entry to his little gallery. He had evidently learned some new tricks from the day before. His work had spread and he was venturing into body art. Ick. He was trying to tell me something about the mirror hanging on his bed, but I was in too big of a hurry to listen. Straight to the shower and then played and then breakfast. While I had him in the high chair watching his new friends, the Teletubbies, I went back to clean up again. The mirror was a true artistic feat. I swear he wrote at least half of the alphabet in poop on the mirror. It is now soaking in antibacterial cleaner.

So, I assume the rest of the day has to improve. Silly, silly girl. That whole "you know what happens when you assume" should have been ringing through my ears.

He was fussy when I went back. he was covered in pop tart and was pointing at his belly. I thought maybe he was concerned about the crumbs (okay, he covers himself in crap and has milk in his hair--why did I think crumbs would upset him?), so I picked him up to wipe him off. Then he gurgled.I looked at him and he had an odd look on his face. As it was registering to me that he was about to puke, he puked. Did I mention that he had had two cups of choclate milk with is pop tart?Today was my first official day of vacation. I am ready to go back to work.