There’s a joyous shout from the bathroom.
“Mum, cover your eyes and block your nose and come in here! I have a surprise for you!”
Oh, my goodness. WHATEVER could that be? And then the rigmarole of the admiring peering into the toilet bowl, making agreeable noises. Yes, it does look like a banana. Or maybe a prawn. Truly magnificent. Superb effort. Now stand very still while I get the wet wipes.
Other families use their imagination to see various shapes in the clouds. My family does it with children’s poo. It’s like a really messed up Rorschach test.
It’s my fault, of course (isn’t everything always ze muzzer’s fault? – pliz lie on ze couch and tell me about it…). Both children as toddlers suffered from the most horrific constipation and it made us all a touch poo-centric, knowledgeable in the black magic of prune juice and soluble fibre. As a result, any success in the bathroom and Carnivale broke out, with streamers and balloons and Mummy doing the lambada up and down the lounge room. The only problem is that any issue with constipation ended at least two years ago, but my kids just can’t seem to break the habit of expecting a daily major celebration.
I have a feeling I’m setting them up for some interesting issues in their future marriages. Apologies in advance to those unsuspecting spouses. For what it’s worth, I’ll try to train them out of it before they get to university.