The Revenge Poop

IMG_0684This is a true story. It is not for the faint of heart. I give you this warning while there is still time to turn back to wherever it is you came from.

Still here? Well then, read on for a story about Lunchbox, his impressive bowel command, and the evolution of a sacred rule that stands in our household to this day…

Once upon a time, the Mr. and I were going to go on a date. It should be known that the Mr. is pretty much always late. On this particular night, I’d gotten myself ready to go, was undoubtedly looking spectacular, and dropped through his office at about five minutes to babysitter arrival time to find him still doing whatever it was he did in his office on the computer.

“Uh, five minutes till the sitter gets here,” I told him. This statement was followed immediately by the doorbell. “Make that, babysitter’s here,” I amended.

He cast a guilty glance my way and then tried for a charming smile before bolting upstairs promising to shower quickly.

What happened next was told to me later by the Mr., since I then had to hang out with the babysitter and make uncomfortable small talk while trying not to feel like my lipstick choice was being judged by a nineteen year old who was way cooler than I’d ever be.

UPSTAIRS… The Mr. strips down fast, aware that he’s already in the doghouse for being late. The shower is heating up, and Lunchbox strolls in, naked as the day he was born.

Mr.: “What are you doing?”
L: “Taking a shower with you.” (This was during the phase where LB LOVED getting in the shower no matter who was taking it… It was cute, but it took more time than a quick rinse when your wife was already pissed at you downstairs).
Mr.: “Not tonight, buddy. I gotta hurry. Mommy’s mad.”
L: *Frowns and tries to get in the shower anyway.*
Mr.: “Seriously, buddy. Not tonight.” *Gets in and closes door.*

Lunchbox scowls and marches away, buck naked and angry. Minutes later, the Mr. is coming back into the bedroom to get dressed, and finds Lunchbox exiting his closet.

Mr. “What were you doing in my closet?”
L: (looking extremely proud) “I pooped in your closet.”
Mr. “What? No. Tell me you didn’t just poop in my closet.”
L: (smiling) “I didn’t just poop in your closet.”
Mr. “Better not have.”

The Mr. goes into the closet and switches on the light. There, laid in a perfect line in the middle of the walk-in closet, is a hefty brown turd, all fresh and new.

Mr. “LUNCHBOX!”
L: …silence

There were some words had after that, and we had to do significant cleaning up before we could finally go to dinner. That said, the Mr. was pretty sure Lunchbox would not be doing that again.

Until he did. The next day he pooped in his brother’s closet because Turbo wouldn’t let him play with his new plastic sword. And the next night he stood up and peed on the living room rug when I told him it was time to get ready for bed.

Lunchbox is going to turn eight soon, and he doesn’t do this anymore. But no one in the house has forgotten the lurking threat of a good revenge poop. (And c’mon… you have to be impressed by anyone who can poop on command…)

 

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