PooPoo Potty's Wrath

She nodded off on our ride home. I needed more than just NPR to feel productive today—I had to stall nap time. I changed lanes hoping the sun would startle her, turned up the music, sang loudly. Made a phone call using key words: bottle, outside, dog. My efforts proved futile. At home, I tiptoed around the car, opening her door with the speed of a windmill on a calm day. I removed her by installments, coming to a standstill if she moved. I eyed the dog so he’d know to keep quiet. I made like a teepee to put her down, pinning my arms underneath her body—the crib supporting me in the Heimlich.From the side I was a perfect upside down ‘ V.’ I eased my arms out like I had invented this technique. Numb from the waist down, I stood slowly, as if at gunpoint and walked backward out of the bedroom, isn’t this how the Indians did it? Just beginning my victory dance, I heard ‘Poopoo Potty.’
I checked to call her bluff, but unfortunately this was valid. I saw her jeans begin to darken slowly from diaper to shoes—muchlike water’s dominance over paper towels. Yes this was a Poopoo Potty, site words check. I hoisted her to the shower head fully clothed—fearful of PoopooPotty’s wrath. She had eaten something vile at daycare—the smell was unbearable. Her jeans morphed into a wet suit. I laid her in the tub to set herfree—yanking and tugging at her clothing as the shower head massaged both of us.With each milestone, a splash of Poopoo Potty launched to places I’ll never find. For the finale, the drain filled to capacity and clogged. Emergency evacuation. I lifted my trophy up, her wetsuit becoming lost in the Poopoo’s water. There would be no nap today.

If you laughed, you should subscribe


Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner