I have not had any ideas to put onto this blog. Each day I sit at this here computer and stare at the screen and think "I have the most boring life in the world! I have nothing to write about!"
I told my kids about this, trying to get some creative juices flowing, and my son suggested that I tell you the story of the poo on the toilet seat. It is a great story-I suggest you go get a snack, because it is always fun to eat while reading a good story. Who am I kidding... it is fun to eat while reading a crappy story as well.
Anyway, a few years ago on one of Hope's birthdays, I was icing her cake. She always requests a chocolate cake with chocolate icing. I am a world class cake icer-I even decorate. As I was making little milk chocolate flowers, I discovered that if I squeezed the icing a certain way, it looked like a little terd. This got me all giggly...
I ran upstairs to my kids bathroom and squeezed some chocolate icing on the back of the toilet seat.
I then started yelling-ranting and screaming about the poo on the back of the toilet! My son came running to see. I asked him if he was the culprit-to which he denied pooing on the toilet seat.
I should have received an Oscar for my performance because I refused to believe that it was not him that went poo. I walked over to the poo and, to my son's disgusted surprise, I put my finger in the poo. I then smelled the poo and finally tasted the poo. My son's eyes were the size of saucers. I confirmed the fact to my son that yes, it was poo and he was going to taste it as well!
I think my son may have suffered a small seizure, and then he started running and screaming away from me. I started chasing him with poo on my finger demanding that he taste his own poo for his punishment.
I have no idea what was going through my son's mind but it was probably something like this:
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH SHE IS A CRAZY WOMAN!"
I finally caught up with him and tackled him to the ground. He was screaming and maybe even crying a little (yes, I am a sinisterly evil mother).
I forced my finger on his lip and he had no choice but to taste the poo...
The screams of horror faded and my son was trying to decipher between two thoughts. #1 Does poo taste like chocolate? #2 How fast can I get to the phone to call Child Protective Services?
In the end we all had a good laugh. The funniest part of the story is that my husband sat in the family room and did not even look up from Fox News. He knows me well and he has obviously decided to be the calm in the storm that we call life.
Oh, and by the way, my son only had to go to therapy for 2 months before his mind was right again. He is like a rock!