Yesterday, Mable was walking around the place like she owned it - half dressed and armed with the modesty of a 17-month old who knows all and shares it. Since Brandy was working with the plummer, I took Mable out front so I could throw a ball for Ziggy. Mable promptly pees on the sidewalk, steps in it, then delights herself with artistic footprints. Wanting to wash off her feet, I take her inside where she demands freedom, then toddles purposefully into Danny's office. The room with the white carpet and loads of stuff Mable would dearly love to get her hands on for further examination. I ask her if she would like a new diaper. She replies, "NO," with a full head shake. I follow her, just in time for her to pee on the carpet. As I cleaned this up, I asked Mable if she would like a new diaper NOW. She shakes her head and replies, "NO." I look at this precious child who is now vigorously patting the wet spot. "Mable," I say, "We don't pee on the rug. We don't pee on the sidewalk. We pee in the toilet."
Immediately, Mable begins striding purposefully towards the bathroom, where she invites me in, slams the door, then throws open the lid to HER toilet. She sits down and promptly empties all aspects of her digestive tract, with much satisfaction. One small piece of toilet paper is not enough, so she demands more. Then she spends several minutes wiping.
She is reluctant to discard her used toilet tissue, but finally I convince her to throw it in the big toilet, where she promptly flushes and watches her whole toilet session's artwork go down the drain, babbling parting remarks with much enthusiasm.
"So," I say to my pleasantly satisfied baby girl, "How about a new diaper?" She furrows her brow, shakes her head, and says, "NO."
We go to the sink to wash. She demands that I pick her up, which I do, but before I can get her hands under the warm water, Mable sticks her pee pee fingers into my nostrils and babbles something that eerily resembles, "Where's your brain?"
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