No choice, but to take him.
Evidently Mr. Coach had been feeling his nearly 7 month old oats all day long. I suspect that his body had been surging with testosterone and while he is always calm and mostly dour, with this new hormone racing through him, he is feeling out of sorts and strange.
I found him racing through the house and careening off the walls. Where had my calm boy gone? Surely dinner would do the trick?
He ate it. Sure. But he had pooped at 4, so the poo schedule was off. Never a good thing. Willow was begging to be left alone. We gathered up all his gear and piled him in the car.
Off we went to Panera where he decided that he would not go quietly under that table. Instead he yanked out all the napkins that had been placed under a leg to keep the table level. Lovely. Then he proceeded to lung after imaginary specks of bread. In PANERA. The place has specks of bread floating in the air. Coach was in constant motion under the table. Here's a speck, no, wait, it's over here.
Sigh. Dinner was a brief affair.
We hightailed it to the school. Then we walked around and were almost late trying to get the boy to poo. I knew he had to go. But no. He was stubborn and would not poo.
So we reluctantly went into the Lykes Center, but we chose a seat in the back row on the aisle. Near the exit. We knew. It was only a matter of time.
|Coach is lying on the floor of the Lykes Center before he has his whining fit.|
|Coach and I are walking to the offending bag of poo.|
|We've found the trash can where the poo is.|
|I'm peering into the trash can as Coach sits by my feet.|
|I reach into the trash to grab the poo.|
|Here we are walking off to find a safe trash can.|
|Dropping off our deposit into a safe trash can!|