My son, the Boy Child, has a rather intimate relationship with his poopie. He's three and a half, remember. We had the following interchange I want to preserve. He was sitting on the potty while I was changing out of my suit.

BC: Pappa, the poopie wants me to move up on the seat.

Me: Ok. Did the poopie tell you that it wanted to move.

BC: Pappa. The poopie can't talk. Poopie don't have mouth. [tone: earnest, but thinking I'm an idiot]

Now, while the poopie cannot talk, it does have a keen sense of adventure, as shown by this conversation my wife just sent me:

The Boy Child calls from the bathroom: "someone come wipe me!" I step in to perform my maternal duty. Then he asks "where does the poopie go? does it go to the bushes to get some chicken nuggets? or no, maybe waffles? or does it go to the city to see the dinisaurs?"

Posted by: Random Penseur at 10:24 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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