This settles it

I’d sort of been wondering where the Hatchling was going to fall in the Squotient Triangulum. Not having applied it to a kid before, I wasn’t sure how long it would be before I could tell what she was. I mean, maybe she wouldn’t develop her squotient until puberty! But as of this morning, I think I have conclusive evidence that we are, in fact, raising a squab. To wit:

The Hatchling got up her regular two times last night, and at her first feeding (at 1:30 am) I could definitely smell the sour-milky aroma of a poopy diaper. We don’t usually change her at night, though, so I hoped it was just a small one and put her back to bed. She got up again at 5, and the smell was a little more pungent. I thought to myself “I really should change her – she won’t sleep much longer with a dirty diaper.” But she was so tired and I knew changing her would just wake her up for good, so … I left it, and put her back down. She then slept until – wait for it – 8:45 in the morning, which is almost two hours later than she usually sleeps. Mr. Squab got up with her as he usually does so I can catch a few more minutes of shut-eye. As I rolled over and prepared to doze, I sleepily listened to the cozy sounds of the Hatchling getting her diaper changed.

“HOLY JESUS GOD,” Mr. Squab intoned. “Sweet fancy Moses, where did all that come from?”

I had to go in to look. Indeed, the Hatchling had pooped out approximately her own body weight. It was a dirty diaper of truly epic proportions, testing the physical limits of her #2 Huggies, and extending upwards to her shoulder blades in the back and her belly button in the front. Her onesie was so soiled that we couldn’t even get it off her without anointing her scalp in poo. It was sort of awe-inspiring.

We stripped the Hatchling down and stuck her right into a warm bath, as she smiled and gurgled happily (she loves being naked and LOVES baths). “What a sweet girl!” I cooed. “I can’t believe she slept in so long in that diaper.”

Mr. Squab looked at me accusingly. “She is definitely your daughter.”

“I don’t sleep in my own crap!” I protested.

“Yeah, but you would. Think about it. If you crapped your pants in the middle of the night, you’d wake up and be like, ‘meh … too much trouble to get up. I’ll deal with it in the morning.’ “

And he’s right, of course. If I had to choose between having non-poop-smeared PJs and getting a few extra hours of sleep, the sleep would win out every time. This is something only a squab would do. And apparently, it’s hereditary.

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