That, dear readers, is the sound of danger, horror-movie style. You might recall from Tuesday that The Mama does her best to exercise discretion with regard to the stories I share with the world. You might be thinking, “Huh?!? Christine, then how do you explain The Big Question, Deconstructing Flatulence, 50 Shades of Safe, or Pint-Sized Proboscis-Picking Party? Or Sh*t My Kid Says? Or—”
Fine, so I have a very low threshold for potential embarrassment.
This story was precipitated by one of The Kidling’s most repulsive habits. It involves the toilet, so if this type of thing grosses you out, then please exit this post and go to something a little lighter (like No, She Is Not Always this Sweet).
Okay, back to the toilet. Alice is still working on ensuring a clean bottom post-bowel movement (I am fairly certain that is the least objectionable way to make that statement). Unfortunately, she has come to believe this task falls squarely on my shoulders. After going number two (the second-least objectionable way to talk about poop in a public forum), it begins:
Alice: (calling from the bathroom) Mo-om!
The Mama: Yes, Alice?
Alice: (She shuffles around the corner into the kitchen—or wherever I happen to be—with underwear and pants scrunched around her ankles. Bending over with butt toward The Mama, she grabs her left buttock with her left hand, her right buttock with her right hand and pulls her tiny little butt apart. Then she inquires loudly…) Is my butt clean?!
Then I hustle her back to the bathroom, wipe her butt, wash our hands, and we go about our day. Done.
Now, this just one of those stories I had decided to keep to myself. There is nothing particularly objectionable about it (except, you know, everything) yet it is just gross enough that the She’ll-Be-Pissed-When-She-Grows-Up-o-Meter sounded.
Then, Sunday, we repeated the charming scene you read above. This time, as we washed our hands, Alice had a thought to share with me, and said “You know what, Mom? I don’t want to look in somebody’s butt when I grow up. It’s like a yucky old central.*”
Yep. Me neither, Babe.
In that instant, I decided to ignore the alarm sounding in my head and blog about it.
Sorry Adult Alice. You asked for it.
* I have no idea what this means. It doesn’t much matter. She included the word “yucky,” so we’ll call it an accurate statement.