No longer obsessed with poop

This was a crappy way to start a beautiful Saturday morning.

Let me set the scene.

While at the park, 3 fire engines and 10 firemen arrived at the big yellow home directly across the street from the park.  Ari squirmed like a worm trying to free himself from my arms to get a closer look at the big red trucks and the people gawking on the sidewalk.  He wasn't wearing shoes or socks but I figured a little dirt couldn't hurt him.  So down he went.  And away he crawled. 

He crossed the cement.  He went over the grass.  And then he crawled directly through a huge pile of dog sh*t.

Post crawl through photo of the sh*t:

Post crawl through photo of the little guy: (Note his right hand, his pants, and his feet.)

(I would have taken more pictures, but Matt was yelling at me.  "Get the wipes.  Clean him up.  He's going to put his hands in his mouth."  He's so vigilant uptight cautious.)

Poor kid stunk!  I actually gagged.  So we stripped him down, dunked him in the fountain, and used up all of our overpriced but delightfully scented, only-for-emergencies, Mustela wipes.  (I didn't want to risk getting any poop on my stroller. Priorities people.)  We then brought the naked guy home, gave him a bath, and put him down for a nap. 

I can still smell the dog poo.  In fact, I think there's some on my pants.  Yup, let me confirm that.  Crap!

Usually I appreciate a good story about #2.  Not today.