Stung

I'm taking one for the Internet here, posting even though I was maimed this afternoon. Bee sting to the next-to-big toe. My kids have been extremely cooperative and helpful out of concern for my injury and I'm wondering if it's worth getting stung by a bee more often.

Just yesterday, someone told me that some experts think that the bee population is dwindling and they suspect the cause is cell phone usage. Now, really. Why can't it be mosquitoes who are harmed by cell signals and the like? I'd SO be making calls all day and night if that were the case.

At any rate, Dana told a gross story today and in the comments I said I would post a story of my own that I thought was as equally gross. So here goes - read at your own grossed-out risk.

It happened back when E1 was just over the potty-learning hump and getting to the potty on a pretty regular basis. She would still have the occasional accident, usually in the bathroom because she just didn't give herself quite enough time to get there. Couldn't. Tear. Herself. Away. From. Playing. When this would happen, we would talk her through the necessary steps of cleaning up after herself; a nice natural consequence, if you will.

So, on this particular day E1 called out that she'd had an accident and I walked into the bathroom to see...no evidence of an accident.

"Are you sure you had an accident?", I asked.

She assured me that yes, she'd had a poop accident.

* Now, I have to interject here and note that unless you knew E1 at that age - her personality and the way she talked - a good portion of the humor is lost. She's a first-born, and was not yet educated in the ways of being wily with the parents. So her tone was very sober, practical, and matter-of-fact, and her words spoken in child high-squeak.

"Really?", I asked. I turned and looked out into the hallway, wondering how I'd managed to get to the bathroom without stepping on a hidden poop land-mine. But there was nothing in the hallway. Nothing in the bathroom. Nothing in her panties. Nothing in the toilet. Not even toilet paper, as she hadn't yet wiped herself.

"If you had a poop accident, then where is the poop?"

"Well, Winston came in and he went (insert chewing/lip-smacking noise here)."

The dog.

He was sitting there in the bathroom, looking part guilty and part interested - a look similar to one he usually employed around the kitchen table waiting to see if anything else would be hitting the floor.

I smelled his breath. To be honest though, it always smelled a bit foul so there was no true way of knowing if he'd truly (insert chewing/lip-smacking noise here) the poop accident.

To this day, just thinking of the noise she made to imitate the dog reduces me to hysterical tears.