Oh Donovan.
A couple evenings ago, Donovan flew into the house, a flurry of speed, and bolted toward the bathroom. A few seconds later, I heard him mournfully calling to Joel. Now, Donovan is not so old that I can't help him in times of need, but he is definitely approaching the age where bathroom-related crises are delegated to his father. Still, as I overheard some whiny gibberish, I decided to investigate.
I stood, framed by the doorway, in the space a normal didn't-leave-it-to-the-last-possible-nanosecond person would have filled with a closed door, and asked, "What's going on?"
Anguish dripped from his voice has he uttered, "I was going too fast...and I had to go so bad...and I pulled down my pants...but I forgot...and now my underwear..." and he nodded downward, unable to actually apply words to what had occurred.
I looked down and beheld my son, sitting on the toilet, jeans around his ankles, sweatshirt hiked up under his elbows, tighty-whities clearly stretched mid-thigh. Not high enough to be in its at-home location. Nowhere near low enough to avoid being soiled.
I half-frowned, half-squinted and shrugged, "Well that's embarrassing for you. Don't do that again." And I returned to the kitchen. WHERE I BELONG.
This moment in parenting is brought to you by Donovan, and his inability to take bathroom breaks.
Friday, October 28, 2011
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1 comments:
Emaline understands this all too well. Just make sure he didn't leave a surprise in your entry way.
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