So Friday afternoon I did my usual thing and took a shower while Punkin watched cartoons on his iPad (thank you, thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart for the iPad, mysterious gifter).
I took a little longer than usual, which you know led to trouble or I wouldn't mention it, but I really needed to shave my legs. For the good of man, it had to be done. So I turn the water off and I hear Punkin burst through the door, "Mom! My blanket's wet. Is wet!"
"Did you pee on your blanket?"
"Mmm Hmm." And he ran off.
Through clenched teeth, "Punkin MiddleName LastName, if you peed on that couch ...." And before I could step out of the shower enclosure, he was back. With two handfuls of poop. And not the kind that comes in one piece. Oh no. Not like the kind at the laundromat. The sticky kind.
"Okay, okay, okay. And we're dumping that in the toilet. And we're washing your hands. NO TOUCH POOP. YUCK. POOP IS YUCKY. GROSS. NO. NO TOUCH. And we're washing your hands again. And why not a third and a fourth time."
"You will be done when I say you're done."
And once more for good measure. "Okay, you're done." We go and get new underwear and head to the living room, keep in mind that I'm still only wearing a towel, we have no curtains, and there's a stoplight outside our large window. "Now where's the poop?"
"Oh der." And he was right. It was right "oh der" on the windowsill. You guys, NONE of it was on the couch, which means he must have been mooning traffic, because I don't know how else you could accomplish that.
You know, when I was climbing into the shower before all of this happened I felt a little guilty for leaving Punkin every Friday night. But after wiping sticky, stinky poo off the windowsill and disinfecting my bathroom, I gladly looked at him and said, "You are SO someone else's problem for the next five hours."