This from Little Unit, in our time of grief. We’re getting used to the idea that the Younger Units have no more grandpas, and I have no more dad. Even though I’m a really, really old grownup, his absence still cuts to the quick, kwim?
But two-year-olds are not renowned for their empathy. And Little Unit is apparently determined to go to prom in a sequined pull-up, so she’s not above using words to eviscerate ( and to keep us busybodies from cajoling her into having a seat on the White Potty). Actually, it came out more like this:
“Ah hate-a mah potty, an’ Ah hatechoo!”
After that, I thought it best to let Little Unit remain naked after stripping for the second time. We weren’t having dinner at the White House, after all. On cue, Micro Unit wails for food. I feed Micro Unit, casually tracking Little Units movements as she putters around, stealing shoes from my closet and tottering around in a pair of red wedge sandals. Where is Larry Flynt when you need him?
Little Unit squats suspiciously.
Too late. I leave Micro Unit howling in the middle of the bed, lift Little Unit high in the air and hustle her to my own White Potty.
Sploosh! The “kids” miss the “pool” and land on my scampering foot. I gingerly peel off the offending shoe and hop downstairs to deposit Little Unit on her White Potty.
“Stay here,” I implore, leaving her on her perch and running back upstairs to:
1. Check on Micro Unit
2. Clorox the shyte outta my bathroom floor.
Moments later, I cauterize my hand, collect Micro Unit, and hustle back down to Little Unit, presumably on her throne.
Ieeeeeeyygh! Little Unit is, well, besmirched with poo.
Micro Unit is deposited somewhere again, howling. Wishing for child-size tongs, I pick up the clean parts of Little Unit and deposit her in a bubbly tub (wishing Clorox was gentle and tear-free).
Amazingly, I remained tear-free. But just barely
Oh, well, could be worse. What if giant snakes—wait a minute!
