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Wednesday, May 31, 2006

The Runaway Bunny

Another reminder that my son is still just a silly boy came loudly from behind the closed bathroom door.

"God, I'm like a rabbit. I'm poopin' poop balls like crazy!"

I yelled back, "That's way more than I need to know, son."

"Yeah, but it's like Alka-Seltzer, plop, plop, but without the fizz, fizz."

"Son, if your crap was fizz, fizzing, we'd have troubles. Do what you have to do and get out of there. And for the love of God, please save the toilet play-by-play. I really don't need to know that stuff."

A little while later, I went into the bathroom and saw what looked to be a poop ball on the floor. Still sitting on the toilet, I leaned in for a closer look. I convinced myself there was no way my 13-year-old son would poop on the floor.

My mind is a messed up little place. The logical part of it told me he could have bent over to admire his mound of poop balls in the toilet, one of which could have been stuck to his ass, falling off and landing on the floor two feet from it's target.

"Naw! He certainly would have noticed that. Plus, does he really admire his poop... still?" I'd almost convinced myself. But I still couldn't bring myself to pick it up even with a wad of toilet paper in my hand. I did my business and called for my son.

"I think we have a problem. Come in here." He joined me in the bathroom and I asked, "Is this a poop ball?"

Wide-eyed and practically pissing himself, he claimed there was no way. I suggested what I thought may have taken place while he admired his poop, quickly adding, "You don't still look in the pot at your poop, do ya?"

I turned toward the toilet. Demonstrating, I bent over as if looking at poop, swiping my butt with my hand and said, "And plop! Like On Top of Old Smokey, the little sucker just got away from ya."

He was laughing so hard he had tears pouring out of his eyes. "Instead of the Runaway Bunny, it's a Runaway Dingleberry!"

"That is a full grown poop ball, not a dingleberry, son!"

Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, he picked it up and tossed it into the toilet. After cleaning the floor and washing his hands, we made eye contact again, we were dying. Holding each other up while we cackled about the runaway poop ball was nearly impossible. Then, out of nowhere, without taking a breath, he became very serious, and said, "You aren't blogging about this, right?"

Laughing even harder, I said, "Oh honey, would I embarrass you like that?"