It was a busy afternoon, and midway through wiping fannies and nose, and scrubbing blueberry puke out of my couch cushions, I hear a wail of despair from the depths of the house. Like a moose in the throes of childbirth, my son was lamenting the inconvenience of not checking the paper supplies before taking the throne. Since my fourteen hands were already busy scrubbing, wiping and sanitizing, I called for backup.
My oldest girl mosied into action, stopping to check on the caterpillar and make herself a glass of chocolate milk on her way to the toiletries supply closet. The wails were intensifying…the distress of being stranded and alone in his own stench was becoming too much to bear. As a side note, no one else in the family even remembers that we have a bathroom in the basement. Because my son is flushing impaired, we simply cordon off that room, and pretend it doesn’t exist. Every few weeks, I crack the door and spray some bleach in just to be on the safe side.
I urge on my oldest, “Move it toots!”
After enough time had passed that she should have made the hand off, I hear a fight breaking out. By the time I came downstairs, she was sitting innocently on the sofa reading.
“Cole is in the bathroom.”
“I know that. What was all the yelling about?”
<blank stare.> “He wanted some toilet paper.” The usual suspects were not going to fill me in on the details of their drama. As per usual.
An hour later, while delivering couch cushions to the washing machine, I find the *real* reason for all the shouting: