Everybody's cheerful in the morning. Griffin is like Pan, a mischevious little smirk pasted upon his angelic face. Berit wakes me to tell me that he's up.

Berit, Pam, Griffin and I hunker into the futon in the guest room... chillin. Griffin looks at me expectantly and declares, "Poo."

"Poo?" I ask. "Pee pee?" I inquire, using Griffin speak to refer to the product of defecation.

"Poo." He repeats, and then I recall that Griffin has just recently begun an infatuation with Winnie the Pooh. He loves it when I sing it to him, and when I read him the books, and when I don the Pooh hand puppet. He evidently is making a video request.

"Pooh... Winnie the Pooh?" I probe.

"Yah." That's a big 10-4, Daddy.

I'm all for early morning videos, as we've long since given up on making Griffin the pure child, the TV-free child. If anything, Griffin will only degenerate faster into television worship, with two older sisters as personal TV guides.

So we watch Poo.