A little boy (ahem, monster) with a crimped, golden-brown afro stands at the commode. Everything is going according to plan.

His pants are down. Check. His pee is in the toilet. Check. Tiny cream colored hands are reaching into the toilet to play in pee-pee water. Check. Wait!

“Noooooooooooooerrahh! Camden! Don’t do that!”

Camden turns his lash-rimmed baby browns on me to say, “You scared me.” Aw. Of course, I’m sorry for yodeling at him like a hoodlum, but–Tiny hands. In toilet. Almost.

Twenty of his hobbit-like friends have used the same toilet (with bad aim I might add). The toilet’s ablutionary appeal is lost on me.

I guess he was mesmerized by the flushing toilet’s hypnotic whirlpool. I guess I overreacted (you: pushaw, like, yeah. He’s two. Me: okay, but it’s still a toilet. Like, have you seen what goes in it? You: *silence that indicates the reply, “duh.”*)

After all, toilets can be pretty cool–and filthy. It all boils down to this: everything is clean when you’re two, and the toilet water is clear (or maybe a trifle yellow).

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