She noticed that every few hours her baby would stop what she was doing and try to push. A few times she rushed her to the toilet, because she is working on pre-potty training. Plus, since the baby was obviously having a hard time getting her poop-swerve on, she thought sitting might help...gravity and all.
After a few unsuccessful poops in the potty, but one sort of successful pee, she decided to just let her be. The day went on, and nothing but a few streak marks in the baby's diaper.
Finally it was time for her to bathe baby. She knows better then to put her in the bathtub when there is an impending poop, so the baby got to take a shower with big sister. And then it happened, that voice that is so often heard during the tubby: "Mom, the baby's pooping!" She came running and was greeted with a stunned baby and a hard as a rock, big as a medium grade egg in the shower. She picked it up swiftly (with a kleenex) and deposited it into the toilet. Then she removed the baby so that she could inspect her...upon inspection she found another rotten egg on the bathroom floor.
The kids finished their shower, and she felt happy that the baby had finally passed what had to have been quite painful smelly eggs. She went through the routine of drying, lotion, hair combing, pajamas, and looked forward to the last few moments of the day before the children go to bed. She began straightening up the house, and that is the last thing she remembers before hopping on one foot and holding out one hand, trying to get to the bathroom to wash her tainted appendages.
The trauma has caused her memory to fade (could it be a case of post-traumatic stress disorder?), but somehow she managed to find a few other quail-size eggs somewhere. She stepped on one with her right foot, and got another smooshed on her right hand. It was cold, mushy, smelly and an all around unpleasant experience. She has no idea where they came from or how, but she does know where they ended up, and she is now very grateful for diapers and toilets.