So it's 9:30 AM. We tried putting Levi in big-boy underwear this morning. We both entered it optimistically - with the enthusiasm that accompanies (for me) the possible end of another diaper era and (for him) the opportunity to wear "Mater" on his bottom.
I started a little Celtic music a bit earlier this morning, as the girls have been into it lately, and it seems to soothe the sometime savage Levi.
As I was preparing breakfast for the other children, Levi disappeared (unbeknownst to me & SURELY a bad omen for a potty training mom). A few moments later, he was trying to get in the door to the house from the garage. Why had he been in the garage? The odor that accompanied his return left little doubt. As I asked him if he had pooped in the garage, he replied, "Where's Mater?" I responded, "Covered in poop." We went in the bathroom to clean him and his underwear up. Ugh... not a job I relish. However, as I noticed the Celtic music playing in the background I thougt, "This doesn't seem quite so bad. It's like washing out underwear at a Renaissance Fair. That prospect, of course, was filled with much more gaiety than the one I was facing."
While I was handling that, Violet had apparently gone through the trash and eaten some unknown leftovers - as is her customary specialty. However, there just happened to be some accordian music on the Celtic CD, and it gave the air of a French dining experience. Trash to... treasure. Debris to... delectable. Waste to... why waste? Refuse to... how could I refuse? I almost felt like joining her.
Even now I can't help thinking that the Celtic bagpipes might even add a little sobering class to a goldfish funeral.
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