It is a well-known fact that when a baby, who is not yet
potty trained, roams around the house commando, that baby will inevitably have
to go to the bathroom. It simply can’t wait. It won’t wait.
Such was the case at the O’Nan household last night. Upon
giving our littlest a bath, I dried her off and let that baby run free, if only
to watch her naked bum run in the opposite direction. (Too much information?
Sorry ‘bout it. But I get the feeling that other mothers will feel me on this.)
As I proceeded to clean up the swamp bathroom, I could hear the typical pre-bedtime
mayhem of a domineering big sister oppressing a feisty and vulnerably naked
little sister. And then I heard nothing. Suddenly, Tristan was behind me, and
she had her hand held out to me. There was clearly something on it that she
wanted to show. I think we can all gather where this is going: The kid had
crapped and not within the cotton-fibery confines of a cheap but functional
Walmart diaper.
“Tim! Tristan just pooped somewhere!” I bellowed out from the
bathroom. “Find it!”
