Save me from the poop, Superman!
Thump, rattle, clankety-clank. Thump, rattle, clanketly-clank.
I see a mini-Superman running through the kitchen making an awful lot of racket. I ask him what is making all the noise. Blessing #3 informs me that it is the tin of dominoes in his Superman pants. When I say something along the lines of “Get those outta there, kiddo!” he lets me know that he cannot.
“I’m Superman. And I can’t get them out ‘cause Superman’s hands are always in front of him ‘cause he flies. And all he does is save people.”
Ahh…. well, fair enough, I suppose.
This was soon followed by the shrill of
"Moooommmmmmaaaaa!" Hysterical shrieks of panic and sadness ensue, and I call to Blessing #4 to find out what the problem is. The only response I get is more “Mooommmmaaaa! Commmmee heeeeere!” She was upstairs in her sisters’ room. She’s squatted on the floor in front of the dresser. Amid the sobs and tears, “Get it off, Moma! Get it off! Ewww! Icky! Get it off, Moma!”
I look down at her dress and see that she has scribbled over the front of it with (of course) a black Sharpie. “Oh… look at that… sorry, honey. Moma can’t get that off. That’s a permanent marker. I can’t wash it out of your dress.”
“Ewww! Look, Mommy. Get it off! Yucky!” More sobs. More tears. More squeals.
I look down at her hand. Looks a little like she’s been in soggy graham crackers. Hmmm… how’d she get the crackers? And why did she chew them up and then spit them onto her hand? Utterly clueless.
Then I realize that it’s poop. Immediately I’m mentally trying to figure out where to place the blame. The dog? The cat? The new cat? I ask her where the poop is. She points behind her. There, in a squishy little pile, is the poop. It finally registers that it’s her poop. All I can think is, where are your panties? (I guess since they weren't on, she was trying to catch it with her hand...?) I found them. Downstairs in the bathroom.
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1 Comments:
Oh. My. God. What a fun day at your house...
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