Fecaliteration

“Mooooooommmm?” came the tremulous query from the living room. I’m at the stove, making mac and cheese for lunch.

“Yeah?” I call back.

“I think I have a poop pellet in my pants.”

“…. Okaaaaaaay. Come grab a wipe to clean it up.”

“Yeah, but I’m afraid if I get up, the poop pellet will fall onto the floor.”

So I bring him a wipe. And he proceeds to reach up his pant leg to swipe for the aforementioned poop pellet. And I go back to the stove.

“Moooooooooom?” it comes again.

Sigh. “What’s up?” I call.

“I can’t find the poop pellet.”

“……………”

“Mom, what do I do?!?” The panic is rising in his voice.

“Just go to the bathroom. And keep an eye on the floor in case anything falls out of your pants.” My appetite for mac and cheese, not great to begin with, has decidedly waned.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I turn around and find my darling boy, hopping on one leg with the other leg bent horizontally at the knee. He’s holding it up. I don’t need to ask why – it’s because the poop pellet is in there.

Thump. Thump. Thump. He hops to the bathroom. The door closes. And then I hear the celebration begin as he shouts:

“MOM!!! THE POOP PELLET CAME OUT OF MY PANTS WITHOUT EVEN TOUCHING MY LEG!!!”

Poop pellet. Words I never want to hear again. Like… Ever.