(I usually don't tell stories like this, because as someone who deals in foul bodily succus all day long at work, I don't really find anything particularly disgusting about the excretia of young children. But this one was kind of gross, even for me.)
One of the many charming things about two year-olds is how few problems they seem to have, and how easy it is to fix them. For instance, I think I can break down Cal's daily tribulations into three main categories:
- I Want Something (cookie, toy, dangerous pointy item) But My Evil Controlling Overlords Won't Let Me Have It.
- Lo, I Have Hurt Myself.
- I Am Overtired, And Therefore Must Waste More Of My Meager Remaining Energy Stores By Screaming.
The solutions to these problems are fairly apparent, even if they are illogical. For example, if Cal hurts himself, he requires (as many children do, I imagine) a kissing of the hurt body part to set things right. He firmly believes that this kissing really makes things better, and takes great pains to manipulate his face or hand or whatever injured part so that is aimed directly at my lips, therefore centering the healing vibes towards whatever invisible wound lies beneath. So of course Joe and I find this adorable, and I particularly relish it, because I know it won't be long before we as his parents will be viewed as USELESS and our kisses the equivalent of some cruel and humiliating punishment.
Anyway. So today Cal comes running up to me with his hand extended, saying, "My finger." He had been playing in the living room, so I assumed that he had banged his hand on something, sustained some sort of mortal crayon wound or similar. So of course, I bent over and kissed his extended index finger. Which I noted only afterwards was slightly brownish, and smelled like poop.
"Mama need to change the diaper," Cal added nonchalantly, about two seconds too late.