Pooping with a plum

Grandpa was his usual self, replacing a termite-ridden fence post, drilling holes into our foundation to hang candle holders by the hot tub, re-working a shoddily done electrical box. Your typical vacation duties.

The laws-in-law went off to a party tonight, leaving us to our Chipotle and crappy preseason football. We got everyone upstairs, and Ryan started this lap down the hallway, running into Erin's room, announcing he had to pee, then running into the bathroom and sitting on his itty bitty pitty potty. He did it 9 or 12 times. Lost count. He was whizzing like a male dog. Only seated and in a bowl. He finally sat down and stayed to catch his breath, or so we thought, but he sprang up and pointed at his organic handiwork. "Look!"

Well, huzzahs and hoorays all around, to include three time zones away. After telling a confused grandad, I decided his Aunt should also hear about this, but then Ryan wanted to talk to his 7-year-old cousin, David, who was nice enough to pretend it was cool, and then Elina and Kyla wanted to congratulate him, too, so of course his Uncle had to be told, along with a hardy "Go Redskins" for that lifelong Cowboys fan. It was just so silly to witness my son's conversation with these people over that there stuff there and the new special wipes mommy got just for him.

He was so ess-kye-tid that he decided he should sleep on the floor. Which makes sense to a 2.75-year old.