It was a day like any other, except that Simon had decided he "is a big kid" and "wants to pee on the potty" the day before. We went through our routines relatively uneventfully, save for the occasional baby shutting herself in a closet or toddler unpacking a cabinet. Simon left us often to use the potty. He had done well the day before and was doing well still. He even remembered to use the potty when we were all in the basement playing and doing our lessons. Whenever he left for the bathroom, he came back a few minutes later.
That afternoon, we went outside to play. The kids rode their bikes and played make-believe while I read my book on the porch. Despite its being a very good book, I found it hard to concentrate on the story. It was an absolutely gorgeous day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing... The quiet clink of gardening tools kept breaking my concentration. ("Mommy, I'm gonna go in the house and go potty.") A heavy breeze was blowing, causing the wind chimes on the porch to chant beautifully. ("Mmm hmm, go ahead... Come back when you're finished...") Someone was grilling vegetables nearby. The aroma wafted over on the breeze. The little girls giggled at something in the flowerbed. Leonard prattled on about construction vehicles to the dog, who seemed to hang on his every word. I could hear the very distant tune of an ice cream truck and the delightful whirring of air conditioning units.
So I was kind of zoning out.
Several moments later I asked Charlotte, "wait, where is Simon?"
"I think he's still inside the house," she answered distractedly, meandering toward the backyard with a handful of dandelions.
"Oh, no..." I said aloud to myself. I leaped from my chair and through the front door as if chased by a swarm of angry wasps. How long had it been? Five minutes? Six? Ten?? Perhaps we were still in the realm of normal. How long did it take him to use the bathroom? I couldn't remember exactly. Images of destruction flashed through my mind: Brand new carpeting smeared in red Crayola paint. Diaper contents fingerpainted all over his crib. Butter in his hair. Entire rooms coated in an avalanche of baby powder. Whole lip balms devoured because they "smelled nummy nummy." A hallway masterpiece done in thick, black permanent marker. Eyes swollen and reddened from being sprayed with perfume... Whole novels torn to well-written confetti. Handfuls of jewelry transformed into wads of hopelessly tangled frustration. Toilets clogged with toys and baby wipes, causing torrents of filthy water to flood the bathroom floor. My feet couldn't fly fast enough to the bathroom door. I screeched to a halt by the sink and said with thinly veiled suspicion (and flat-out fear) "Simon! What are you doing in here?"
"Umm, I'm just dippin' the paper," he said, smiling innocently. His underpants were around his ankles and in his hand was an entire roll of wet toilet paper. I did a quick status check of the room. 3 more new, toilet-dunked rolls of toilet paper in the trash can. Some water dribbled on the floor. A whole tube of toothpaste, which I had just bought and opened the night before, squeezed more empty than I had ever seen a tube of toothpaste squeezed. Every drop of that sucker was in an enormous glob of swirly blue in the sink.
We cleaned up the mess and headed back outside. As I sat down in my chair and picked up my book, I sighed with relief that the situation was not as bad as usual. I got through half a page before I was pleasantly interrupted by a small, cool hand on my knee. "Mama? Yum!" It was the sweet baby girl, with a huge mouthful of dirt and the cutest smile I'd ever seen, despite the hunks of earth.
Too bad we were out of toothpaste.
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