|You get one chance to guess who dressed my 3-year-old son in this picture.
(Clue #1: It wasn’t my husband.)
The other day, my 3-year-old and I were at the grocery store. Right in the middle of our trip, he said he had to go to the bathroom. After the “Are you sure?” questions from me, since I was knee-deep in frozen chicken breasts looking for the best deal while simultaneously losing a small toe from frostbite, we made our way up to the front/opposite side of the store with a metric ton of groceries in our gargantuan 18-wheeler-sized grocery basket disguised as a cute, yellow car and parked it in front of the water fountains. Despite the fact that my groceries were piled so high that the loaf of bread on the very top kept getting caught in the light bulbs dangling from the store ceiling as we trudged along at a speed of -3 miles an hour, I said a quick prayer before heading back to the restroom that no overzealous store employee would think the basket’s owner had skipped town and then decide to put all of the groceries back on the shelf, a task that would take at least until 2021. Confident that all the employees had an IQ higher than 3, minus the produce guy who failed to keep the free fruit samples stocked, I grabbed my little dude’s hand.
Once hunkered down in the handicapped stall, with me saying yet another silent prayer that we wouldn’t emerge once we were finished to find a very angry old lady in her motorized grocery cart waiting for THE only stall she could possibly use and find it occupied by a healthy and able mother and son, my 3-year-old made his way over to the “toe-wit”. Right as he announced, “I GOTTA GO POO-POO, MOM”, I realized that all of the stalls in the restroom were occupied.
“Okay, okay,” I said quickly and quietly to cut off any other discussion he wanted to have about the inner workings of his little body.
“YOU GOTTA GO POO-POO, MOM?”
“No, no. You just go and then we’ll finish shopping, okay?”
“FffffbbbshhhhfffffffbbbbbbbbbshhhhhhhffffffffffffffffffFFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!” (The verrrrrry loud and looooong sound my son made with his hind-end while on said “toe-wit”.)
“YOU HEAR THAT, MOM?”
“Yes. Hurry up, okay?”
“I FAHTED, MOM.”
“I know. Finish up, okay?”
“FFFFFFfffffffffffffshhhhhhhh.” (Sound the lady directly beside us made with her hind-end while on the toilet.)
“YOU HEAR THAT LADY FAHT, MOM?? MOMMY,MOMMY, DID YOU HEAR HER FAHT?”
“Shhhhhhhh!!!” (Me in a desperate attempt to make him quit talking about our stall neighbor’s “faht”.)
“WHY YOU SAY ‘SHHHHHHH’, MOM? WHY YOU SAID THAT?”
Right then and there, I would have attempted to flush myself down the toilet if a) my son hadn’t been doing his business in it, b) if I would have fit and, more importantly, c) if I had been wearing my bathing suit. (There’s no way I’m diving into a toilet, floating through pipes and ending up in a sewage plant in nothing but my cutest swim attire.) We waited and waited and waited AND WAITED until finally that faht-ing lady made her way out of her stall. That is when we slllloowwwwly emerged, just in case there was a lady in her motorized wheelchair waiting for our stall with her cane poised to knock me in the head.
Also, if you have a past/recent funny post you want to share, you still have time to link it up with “Finding the Funny”. It ends tomorrow!