Mr. Monkey and I are downstairs, watching the original version of The Fly.
The baby monitor crackles.
“Mama! Dada! I pooping RIGHT NOW. Mama, Dada!”
I trudge up the stairs, thankful for a moment that this spring cold has dulled my sense of smell, wondering when (oh when!) this small child will opt in to the whole potty training thing (current level of interest: 1/2 of 1%, only on Tuesdays. Rest of the time:0%).
I open the door and catch a waft of stink. So much for that cold.
“Mama! I pooping and I spit water all over da floor!” My son, he who is entirely without guile.
“Why did you do that? That is not nice. If you do that again I will take your water cup.”
I lay him down on his changing table, which is now too small for his 37 inch frame. He glares at me.
“I feel angry. I feel angry you say dat to me. You no take my cup. I feel angry and sad.”
I marvel for a second at this emerging little person who is starting to make sense of the complicated mess of feelings. Then I stop marveling and wipe his scrawny bottom.
“I feel a little angry too, buddy, when you spit water on the floor. That isn’t what water is for.”
“Water not for floor? For Miles to drink? And not spit on floor?”
“Okay, okay Mama.” he sounds mildly exasperated, like he is dumbing it down for me. “You don’t tell me. You just don’t tell me dat.”
“Goodnight love bug.”
“Goodnight Mama. I not angry any more. Now I happy!”
“I’m glad Bobo”
“Spit little water on da floor now?” he asks hopefully.
And then I went and banged my head against the wall for a little while.