Isla and her bag of poop

In psychology there is a "bag of poop" concept. Have you heard of it? People have a tendency to carry around their preverbial bag, filled with foul blank, and every now and then they put their hands in it, squish it around, feel it's warmth, smell it a little, talk about how it feels and what it means to them. It's not a good thing, obviously, be we all do it, and some more than others. It's good to learn from our past, but we need to let the dead horse stay dead, you know? We need to embrace our present and try our best to make today better than yesterday. Right? But that is just my two cents and has nothing to do with this post. 

We've all heard of kids playing with their poop. I did it. I was a real artist and preferred poop to Crayola. Sorry Mom . . . 

So I guess I had it coming. The other day Isla was running around in the buff and disappeared for a moment (really, not long, maybe a minute?) . She had gone into her room after I asked her to go pick out her pajamas. She came back, soon enough, with a big proud smile on her face. She looked right at me and said said "Here you go!" And there, in her cupped hands, was a lime-sized piece of poop. Shiny and brown. Wafting it smell across the two foot space. 

I am sure you all know what came next--Hazmat 911.

Then, a few days later . . . 

Liam and Isla are playing quietly in her room. I can hear Liam reading a book. I am on the phone with Connie. I go into her room to check on them and this is what I find: Liam, reading the book. Isla, spreading soft poop all over her arms and legs like it is luxurious lotion. There are smears near her mouth. 

Same response from me--- Hazmat 911.

I hope this isn't a trend.