And now, the spooky tale of our Halloween:

There were those few glorious minutes when I got home to hear that Zane was napping, was able to sit down with a book, and read before the first little chittery peep from Zane's room came. Just a few minutes in silent bliss and relaxation after a long day of teaching. And the excited, "oh! He's awake!" whisper I said as I cheerily closed my book and pranced to his room.

But when I opened the door...

When I opened that dreadful door, saw my poop-covered boy, his poop-covered walls, and the poop-covered bedding, all bliss drained out of me like a switch had been flicked. Zane was quite proud of his work. So proud in fact, he showed me his poop-covered hands immediately, as if a potter were proudly showing their clay... or something poop-looking.

I spent the next few hours bathing Zane, scrubbing the poop from off of him, and praying with all of my might that he hadn't eaten any of it. Oh, and crying. Lots of crying and 'why mes?'. I spent so much time scrubbing the poop (and bawling) that by the time the wall was immaculate, it was long past trunk-or-treating time. Darkness had already set, and I had already had two trick-or-treaters stop by despite our lights being off (who I then had to wash my hands for to open the door, apologize for not having candy, and give them a consolation prize of stale oatmeal cookies).

To console myself, I put Zane into his stroller and snapped these quick pictures before letting the last of my tears soak up. I went to bed early that night, thinking about how I would no longer be able to mooch any candy off of my helpless son or get cute pictures like I did last year. It was quite the emotional roller coaster, that night.

So in the future, it looks like we will be duct taping Zane's diaper to his body and requiring babysitters to be trained in SWAT-like stealth. Oh, and doing lots of laundry.