Yesterday morning my son came through the back door. “Did Baymax already poop today?” He asked.
Baymax, our six-year-old Maltipoo has a very predictable schedule. His bowel movements normally hit around 9:00 a.m. This morning, however, was the exception to the rule.
“He did,” I responded, “Did you step in it?”
“Yeah,” said my son, “and now it’s on my sock.”
“Why were you in the backyard at 6:30 a.m. in your socks?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “It is cold and dark.”
“Well,” he said slowly, the exasperation in his voice palpable, “I had to pee. And the bathrooms upstairs were occupied, and I’m not using the downstairs bathroom. It is disgusting.”
“So you went outside to pee.”
“Yeah.”
“In your socks.”
“Yeah.”
“And stepped in dog poop.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Okay,” I sighed, “just throw the sock away. I’m not putting dog poop through the washing machine.”
“Should I keep the other one?” He asked.
“Up to you,” I said, “Next time, can you just use a bathroom?”
“No.” he said.
And if that doesn’t sum up raising a boy, I don’t know what does.