I blame it on the Miralax.
We had a long drive, and on the way, my girl soiled her pants.
At home she speed-waddled to the bathroom and whipped off her clothes before I could stop her.
It wasn’t her fault really, but somehow the floor, the sink, the toilet and the humans were covered in the brown stuff in a matter of seconds.
I washed her hands and tried to do damage control.
There were not enough wipes in the world.
She stood off to the side and hummed excitedly.
I ran and grabbed cleaner and a roll of paper towels.
Rhema casually came over and ripped off a couple paper towels. Then she bent down, awkwardly wiped at the toilet seat and threw the paper towels in.
Had it not been dirty, I would have hit the floor.
She helped! She cleaned!
The is the tornado-child whom I have run behind with a broom, sponge and bucket since she took her first steps. This is the child who, for years, has
smeared expressed her fingerpainting creativity with the…er…chocolate pudding on every possible surface (so much so that we had to strip all the wallpaper in her old room and re-paint the walls with a highly washable paint). This same child used those same hands to help me C L E A N!
I never thought I’d see the day.
Sniff. My baby’s growing up.
I dare say, cue the Pomp and Circumstance.
She’s graduating from Poop Art School. (!)