And, the award goes to…
April 22, 2015
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Other mothers must be jealous of my deft skill at parenting a toddler. My little man decides to keep me company as I brush my teeth one evening, which is no surprise as he never misses an opportunity to cruise any restroom. I’m not quite sure what that indicates, but I digress. Of course, I take no precautions. Clearly, I have a tidy and civilized offspring who came out of the womb adhering to appropriate social conventions and only the finest hygienic practices.
I continue to blissfully attend to arguably the highlight of my face with reckless abandon, casually glancing at my husband’s child who at this point is giddily dunking both hands in the toilet. I would like to say that my cat-like reflexes bounded across our restroom, circumventing any contamination of residual fecal matter on his delicate hands. I’d like to say that.
But, alas, with hands plunged in as far as someone who can barely see over the toilet seat can, my explorer looks up at me with eyes wide as if to say, “Mommy, whenever did we install such a luxurious pool in our homestead?”
So, with a billboard sized display of, “Parenting Fail,” scrolling across our stark white walls, I scoop him up and pray to a God I don’t believe in that this be the one time he hesitates before cramming all of his digits inside his perfect little mouth. Fortunately, the universe cuts me a break, and perhaps my child will not succumb to whatever horrible life threatening disease that inhabits our poorly maintained toilet this evening. With the crisis freshly avoided I contemplate the appropriate alibi should my husband decide that very moment is the perfect time for his evening shower.