Dooce writes about it. Doctors talk about it. Grannies do, too. So just know that if reading about bodily functions makes you queasy, you should not read this post. It could definitely be TMI.
But my son, he cracks me up! Honestly, the way he describes things, I think he might be destined to become a writer.
We were driving home this afternoon when he announced that he desperately needed the bathroom. We were just a few minutes from home, with no bathroom stops along the way. I told him to be a big boy and hold it just a few minutes longer.
“Mom, please hurry up. My poop is tumbling around to the top of my butt!”
So, I try to think of something to take his mind off it. I suggested that he count backwards. So he dutifully started at 10 and counted down to 1.
“That didn’t help, Mom…”
“Well, maybe you should do it again, starting at 20,” I replied, frustrated at the lady in front of me driving eight miles under the speed limit. “Do you think you can remember how to do that?”
“But mom!” Eli replied, sounding desperate. I could hear his legs wiggling against the seat. “Counting down like that made my poop rocket ready to blast off!”
Zach and I fell over laughing, and thankfully, we made it home before the little guy had an accident.
Later tonight, at dinner, he peered over the stove top to see the baked chicken breasts I’d pulled out of the oven. One had a particularly bumpy surface. He pointed to it, scowled and asked, “What IS that? It looks like a baked alien heart!”
He could use a lesson or two in good manners, but you have to admit: he has a way with words!