First off, Sunday's momentous occasion: MaryAlice "peed in the potty." She just announced that she had to go, then did. (We're pretty laissez faire, and don't have her on any kind of regimen. I mean, she's not even two yet!). In fact, she was so excited about having done so that she repeated this feat roughly five times ... in incrementally smaller volumes, of course. All the while, Stuart chided her, "I'm not proud of you. That isn't even a real potty. (We have this little jobby: procured from a garage sale by a relative. It's supposed to play music when the child does his or her business. Needless to say, we have removed the batteries). It doesn't really flush. And that's not real toilet paper."
Then, when I offered MaryAlice a sucker as a reward, Stuart demanded one, too, because, "I went in the potty. The real one."
We-he-hell, Mr. Smug: need I remind you of the previous day's shenanigans? On Saturday, one of Cullen's friends invited us to his parents' house to swim in their in-ground swimming pool (a real rarity in Wisconsin, where it's probably only usable for three months out of the year -- if that). While swimming, Stuart declared, dramatically, "I have to go pee!"
You know, at least he said something instead of just relieving himself in the pool. But when Cullen's friend suggested, "Why don't you just go in that bush over there?" ... there was an incident.
I should preface this by saying that Stuart has never "gone" outside before, so he isn't entirely aware of the social norms surrounding this practice. For example, instead of just modestly lowering the front of his swim trunks, he took them all the way off. Then ... well, he peed all right. He also pooped. In the yard of the near-strangers. In front of said near-strangers. (Thank goodness not, like, directly in front of them). Rest assured, we hosed him down well before we allowed him back in the pool.
The coup-de-grace, though? The family's pug, Sassy, ate Stuart's poop.
Let that sink in.