Sophia Heawood has a funny article in the Guardian titled "I dread the day my daughter's poos get smaller." It's about her two-year old’s bathroom accomplishments. Here's a sample:
My daughter has recently become obsessed with the size of her poos – and they are all big, according to her, whether they look to me like they came out of a greedy Jack Russell or a sickly church mouse. "Big poo, Mummy," she says, in awed tones – awed by her own bottom. "Big poo."
This is not my confession – it's all pretty normal... My confession is that I, in turn, have become desperately proud of her pride.
I'm so in love with her big poos that I can't bear the idea of them stopping. Of her realising that they aren't things you want to show off about. Of the day when somebody makes it clear to her, whether by accident or design, that sweet little girls aren't supposed to describe the massive steaming achievements cruising out of their bums, propelled by the wonders of peristalsis, into the marvels of the plumbing system. That curly little blondes such as she should desire to be small, and contained, and clean, and dress up as pink princesses. And shut up about their dirty selves; already, enough.
I dread the day those whopper turds have got to go.