As a little girl you dream of many things. You play with your dolls and dream of becoming a mother, you dance at your ballet recital and dream of becoming a ballerina, your parents get you a puppy and you dream of becoming a veterinarian. Never in all my wildest dreams did I think that my future would one day revolve around other peoples poop.

Dogs - they need to poop, and they need you to help them do it in the right place at the right time. I have two dogs, twice the poop. If I'm not coaxing them to "go potty outside" I'm cleaning up the potty inside.

My Husband - thankfully he does not need my assistance. He does, however, require my admiration of his lengthy toilet battles. What is it about men, the toilet, and a magazine subscription that elicits such sighs and grunts of joy and relief? I swear that the male digestive system is an entirely different mechanism than the female version.

My Daughter - she's three months old, poops twice a day. If I'm lucky, it's while the nanny is with her. But even then, I can not escape the poop - because if I don't know when and what she pooped I don't know if she's sick or having a unidentified baby issue. So I have to ask who ever was lucky enough to witness the poop all sorts of unpleasant questions. When else would it be appropriate to ask another grown woman "Would you say the poop is more like a milk shake or more like watery bird seed?"

Now you have the full meaning of the title of this blog.

This is what happens when you're bored on maternity leave.

Baby Fingers are Tough

Baby's are boring. Especially other people's babies. That's why this blog is about my baby - who is obviously not boring at all.

Three months old and the most dramatic and scarring thing that has happened to date is finger mutilation -- mommy is like jack the ripper with those teeny tiny baby fingernail clippers. I got cocky, thought I could handle a few flailing arms without causing injury to myself or others. I was wrong - and I clips off the very tippy top of Miss M's thumb. I might have been able to handle it if there hadn't been blood. That pin-prick size drop of blood sent me in a downward spiral. I don't know who cried more, but I'm thinking it was mommy. Poor mutilated M.