I had one such moment today. The inspiration: L’s first grown-up turd.

Not to be gross or anything, but up until this point, all of the baby’s poops were more liquid than solid; the kind of stuff you could hear gushing out. Then, this afternoon, after nearly a week of sweet potatoes, the baby introduced us to something most definitely solid, a miniature version of the same thing we adults produce.

To be frank, this “development” caught me by surprise. My nose told me she had a present in the diaper. But when I lifted down the front of her Huggies, the last thing I expected to see was a little Almond Roca.

The first questions that ran through my mind were: How long had it been there? Why didn’t she cry as it came out? And why the hell does it smell so awful?

Then, of course, the practical (read: neurotic) part of my brain kicked in with follow-ups: How do I clean this up? Are there city ordinances that govern how I should dispose of it? How does it compare in size to turds from other children her age?

(Damn those percentile charts that L’s doctor is always giving us.)

As I deposited L’s deposit into a deodorizing baggie, I couldn’t help but think of the song “Sunrise, Sunset” from “Fiddler on the Roof.” In the song, parents Tevye and Golde croon wistfully about the bittersweet realities of their daughters growing up. Sure, the ballad is about kids becoming adults and getting married. But the sentiment—my sentiment—was exactly the same.