Very early this morning, the bathroom door opened. I protested because, well, it was closed for a reason, if you get my drift, and I think that you do.
A still-sleepy-looking small child appeared in the doorway, clad in old-man-style plaid jammies, holding something. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was a not-insignificantly-sized, perfectly-formed ball of poop.
I should note that he was still wearing his pajama bottoms, and that everything...usually involved with this sort of thing was perfectly clean, as if his offering simply materialized in his hand like some kind of goddamned Mr. Hanky of a Christmas Miracle. He was quite pleased with himself, apparently, having bypassed his own bathroom to purposely make his way into mine so he could show it off before depositing it neatly into our toilet.
And the You Know You Have Too Many Small Children punchline to this story is that my only reaction was to shrug and think: Well, that's a timesaver.