Look at the bright side...

It's always lovely to wake up to the sound of the pug eating a puddle of her own vomit in the middle of the bedroom floor. (Should I add a disclaimer to this blog? A warning of sorts, to alert my readers to the fact that sometimes I write about dog puke and kid puke and other gross things no one really wants to read about but that are a fact of my life and therefore fair game? Eh. Consider yourselves warned. I've never particularly cared about writing appropriate things -- I'm sure my mother will confirm this.) I hope it's not an omen, an indicator of how our day is going to go. At least I didn't step in it. Maybe it's my lucky day. Any day in which I don't step in warm dog vomit in bare feet is better than one in which I do, right? (In case you're wondering, no, this doesn't happen often, and yes, actually, I have stepped in warm dog vomit in bare feet. My apologies if you're eating lunch right now.)

In other news, here's a little riddle: How many minutes does it take a toddler to get into trouble while her mother cleans up the breakfast dishes?

Answer: No minutes. It takes no minutes. Seconds, maybe. It's unbelieveable, really; Suzannah is completely capable of entertaining herself with her dollhouse or her baby and stroller or any number of toys, and often she's so absorbed in her play that I could probably take a bubble bath or read a few chapters in a novel before she'd even miss me. So I didn't think it was ridiculous to assume that this morning she could do that for, oh, five minutes while I put a few things away. I busied myself in the kitchen, wiping the counter and washing the dried remnants of oatmeal out of her bowl. I let the dog out. And then, guess what I heard?

Nothing.

Suzannah was silent. (Did that just send chills racing up your spine? Silence is never a good sign when your child is awake.) I turned around, and sure enough, she'd vanished. I strolled casually into our bedroom, because that's one of her favorite places to play, and found her bent over the toilet in our bathroom. She was not only bent over it, she was armpit-deep in it. I tried not to scream, because I had a feeling that wasn't the worst part. I was right. The worst part was discovering that she had unspooled an entire double roll of Quilted Northern into the toilet bowl.

"Suzannah," I moaned. At the sound of my voice, she turned to me and beamed, clearly oblivious to the stricken expression on my face.

"Potty," she announced cheerfully.

At least she knows where toilet paper goes, I guess. I'm so proud.