Andy Goes For A Swim!

Let me preface this blog entry by stating that if you are the parent of a toddler, you need to always know where they are, keep the bathroom door closed at all times, or, if for some reason you can't manage to do these first two items, at the very least, always put the toilet lid down.

Some of you may see where I'm going. That's called foreshadowing. Good writers use foreshadowing. However, great writers use misdirection, so perhaps you DON'T know where I'm going with this.

Nah. I'm a good writer, not a great writer.

Andy loves the toilet. He likes to stick his fist in the toilet water and splash happily around. Many days, he's walking around the house with a wet, drippy sleeve of toilet water. The toilet makes him happy, and he'll do whatever he can to get his hand in there- even if I'm already sitting on it, making good use of it. He's recently discovered throwing toilet paper in there, which is a deed I am cautiously encouraging. Yes, Andrew, toilet paper goes in the toilet. But ONLY toilet paper. And, you know, feces.

We have two bathrooms upstairs. One is Andy's bathroom, which is a hot mess of tub toys, non-tub toys, toiletries, clothes, used towels, and make-up (mine, not Andy's, although he's certainly mesmerized by it. Chris thinks the fact that he carries around powder brushes means he might be a painter. I don't have the heart to point out the obvious, that it might mean a future of garish face paint and wild cross-dressing.). Then there's also our bathroom, in our bedroom, which is also a disaster zone, only it's not quite as easy to blame Andy for. But we try.

I was using the toilet in Andy's bathroom on Saturday, or at least trying to, while Andy was attempting to shove his hand behind my butt and stick his fingers in the water. God, I hope I'm not the only mother with this problem. Chris had just woken up, and, having had enough, I yelled out for him to come get Andy. Which he did (I'm still on the toilet at this point, a further unnecessary glimpse into our home life). They left the bathroom, door closed behind them, and I relished being able to finish peeing. It was very relaxing, doing this alone. I only wished we also kept magazines in the mess of the bathroom.

When I exited the bathroom a few minutes later, it was very quiet. This, I may not have to tell you, is NEVER a good sign. Andy is only very quiet when he's sleeping, doing something hugely horrible, or passed out on the floor because he hit his head too hard against the wall. I knew I wasn't lucky enough to have a sleeping toddler on my heads at this time in the morning, so I headed into Chris' office hoping to find them both there. Only Chris was there, on his computer, completely in his own computing world, with no toddler in sight. Oh, God.

"Where's Andy?" I asked.

"I don't know," replied Chris, as if this was the first time he had considered such a question. I turned on my heels and headed into our bedroom. Nope, not there either. I made a sharp left into the master bath- and gasped.

Andy, sweet, quiet Andy with the blankest of stares on his cherubic little face, was sitting IN the toilet. He had managed to climb in and was just sitting there, the toilet seat a touch below chest level, with one of his arms resting atop the seat itself.

Believe it or not, my first instinct was not to laugh or take a picture. The first thing I did was imagine how this could have gone horribly wrong, how Andy could have splashed in head first instead of butt first. See, that's what happens when you become a mom- you perceive things that are HILARIOUS as things that are extremely dangerous. A little bit of your comedic intuition also comes out when you deliver that child.

I yelled for Chris, who came running in. We stared at Andy for a minute, who stared back at us, strangely content to be sitting in a toilet, in cool toilet water. Then, Chris hefted him out carefully, and I looked at what Andy had been sitting in besides just water. Because first he had thrown in some toilet paper. And a banana peel. And his blanket.

Andy got a bath, lost a blanket (that went directly into the trash), and a long lecture on how he's too big to be flush himself, so he might as well never try again. Chris got a lecture of sorts, too, and now has to deal with me yelling at him every morning, "Is the bathroom door closed? Is the toilet seat down?"

As if I don't already have plenty to yell about.

Oh, Andy. We should have taken a picture. But, please, I'm okay just living with the memories. No need to recreate that just so I can get a shot.