There is nothing quite as delightful as being torn from a sound sleep by a preschooler barging into your room and raving about bathroom functions.
My wife and I were both blissfully asleep Sunday morning when Michael busted right in to inform us of something very newsworthy.
“I just pooed on the floor and the cat he sniffed it and I don’t think it’s there anymore and it got flushed down the toilet but the cat was drinking and he did that.”
“WHAAAAAAT?!!!” my wife shouted, bolting out of bed to investigate.
Good morning! I’m awake now.
Michael led his mother off to the scene of the incident. I heard him repeat his incongruous report as they descended the stairs.
I lay there, having some intention to arise, and even a little bit of motivation as well, but not nearly enough to overcome the pull of the magnets housed within the mattress.
Eventually I did manage to drag my sorry butt out of bed, throw on some sweats and stumble downstairs.
By this time all appeared normal; Michael was now watching SpongeBob and his mom was preparing some breakfast for him.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I’m not really sure. He said something about pooping on the floor and the cat trying to eat it or something, but it didn’t make any sense, and there’s no evidence of anything happening like that.”
Still perturbed by his story, I asked him myself.
“Michael, what did you do?”
“Huh?” This is his favorite new word. I’m going to have to get used to it. Teenagers love this word.
“Did you poop on the floor?”
“Mm hmm. I don’t think it’s there any more,” he said, casually.
“Show me.”
“It’s right there,” he said, pointing to the bathroom. Well, at least we’re in the right general area, I thought.
“Take me to it.”
He led me right to the spot in the bathroom.
“You did it right here?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said. Jeez… the story keeps changing.
“Michael, did you poo on the floor?”
“Right here,” he said.
One of the glories of being a parent is having to investigate stories of poop, no matter how sketchy they may be.
So I turned on the light, got right down close to the hardwoods and inspected for any sign of a sheen that might indicate that waste product might have been in contact with the floor.
Nope, nothing.
Just to be sure, I had Michael wash his hands really good, while I admonished him to NEVER, EVER, EVER pick up or even touch poop. EVER!
And of course I had to inspect his nether regions for signs of improper wiping, and his pullup for signs of exit. Nothing.
So my wife and I are left scratching our heads.
What exactly happened?
We may never know.
And that’s what’s really scary.