Life and its free epiphanies. You know the kind: moments where random events congeal to deliver a whopping Jell-O casserole of realization. The kind of realization that allows you to belatedly understand laughter doesn’t necessarily mean “Go on, tell me your best poop joke.”
On a normal morning, Little Dude wanders into our bed ready for a hostile takeover with an armful of blankets and stuffed animals. He lays them out, flops into me and A) falls back asleep or B) humps the bed. Incidentally, option B is always the five-alarm hint Little Dude, dangerously half asleep, needs an immediate rendezvous with the toilet and why I know how Captain Sullenburger felt when he calmly and deftly used logic and training to avert soggy disaster.
But yesterday morning wasn’t normal. Instead of the usual earl-morning bedjack, there was only the “Tsk-tsk-tsk” of pajama feet padding sneaky-like down the hallway. Naturally, there was only option: a silent prayer of thanks before falling back to sleep. Aside from burning down the house or falling off a counter or trying to move the TV/refrigerator or getting into the knives or hiding in the dryer, what harm’s a 4-year-old kid going to do without adult supervision?
Eventually, Little Dude made his way back to the bedroom– but instead of wandering in under a bleary-eyed stupor, Little Dude wandered in with an amped “I know what I’m about to tell you could go either way” smirk.
I’d made brownies the night before (from scratch… what!), so when Little Dude walked in and started nonchalantly snooping through my drawers, I knew what had gone down.
“What.”
<Smile>
“Did you get into the brownies?”
“Yeeeeeeeeees.”
“Wow, that’s impressive. How’d you know we even had brownies?”
“My nose is so good. It’s so good even when I’m in bed. I didn’t even cut them. I just grabbed them with my hand –<crunching squishing noise with grabbing action>.”
Of course, there was no way to even fake scorn because that was just awesome.
Cue day two: Brownies? History.
Little Dude climbs onto the counter and opens the cupboard where cereal, bread and treats usually live, only to find low parental desire to go grocery shopping = nothing but twigs and bark Kashi cereal and a heel of bread. Little Dude turns to Lady-Friend and lip jutting, voice wavering, tears brimming says, “Where are all our treats?”
At that moment, events aligned. Ding! Realization.
Our kid is a future diabetic.
Little Dude’s been in metaphorical fisticuffs with the whole potty training concept for a while now. He gets it, but apparently when you’re four and playing is happening, you ain’t got time to mess with no toilet. Most days, it all works out. Other days, underpants are very, very sad.
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