My adorable four-year old likes to talk about three things: trains and trucks, Jell-o and poop.
This post is about the latter of the three.
I was in my bathroom getting ready for church on Sunday morning. In came the four-year old, happy as always when he wakes up.
“Hi, Mommy. I’m awake!” he said with a huge smile. I gave him a big hug and told him good morning. He watched me continue putting on makeup for a minute or two before he said, “I pooped on my bathroom floor.”
“You pooped on your floor?” I repeated. He nodded, not ashamed, just as non-nonchalantly as he had said it. “Is the poop still on your floor?”
“No, I cleaned it up,” he replied proudly. I was quiet for a minute. So he broke the silence again. He lifted his pointer finger to his nose and said, “this finger smells like poop.”
“Gross!!” He had hugged me, after all. “Wash your hands right now.”
“I already did.”
“Let me smell.” Even more gross, I know…
I didn’t smell poop, but I didn’t smell a deep, fresh soap scent enough to satisfy me, so I told him he needed to wash them again. Then we went upstairs to the scene of the crime. Sure enough, there was not a spot of poop on the floor. Instead, there was a roll of toilet paper sitting on the floor (which I assume he had used to clean the mess), and all evidence flushed away.
Hey, at least he cleans up after himself!
P.S. I scrubbed the bathroom tile with 409.