On weekday mornings, Willow likes to venture into the master bathroom to watch Mommy get ready for work.
She watches with astonishment as Mommy brushes her teeth and fixes her hair. But mostly Willow sits in the floor and plays with her bath toys.
She was doing just that this morning as Mommy stood at the mirror prepping and Daddy sat in the kitchen eating breakfast. All was peaceful and routine.
Then the screams started.
They were the screams of a panic-stricken Mommy, not of a hurt baby.
I have to deliver full disclosure here. In the flurry of excitement, I don't recall exactly what was said, but it was something like, "Brian! Oh, my God! Brian! Come here! Oh, my God! Clean her hands!
"And CLEAN HER TONGUE!!!"
< OK, in a sense of obligation to the dramatic pause, I'm going to pause dramatically here. >
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Let it sink in.
Tick.
Tick.
There. Good? OK, I will continue.
I dropped my fork and rushed, no, walked very briskly into the bathroom, where I spotted a flustered Mommy and a happy baby ... a baby who had pulled up onto the toilet. Willow was standing there, grinning (the seat was down) and running her hands over the toilet.
"SHE LICKED THE TOILET!" Mommy gasped.
I carried Willow into the living room and used a pair of wipes to scrub her hands and mouth. I didn't wipe off her tongue, though I told Mommy I had.
When I returned to my breakfast, Willow crawled back into the bathroom. And, you guessed it, she pulled back up onto the toilet.
I don't know what a baby thinks, but in these instances, she must be thinking, "If Mommy and Daddy made such a big deal about it, there must be something to see. I'm going back for some more!!!"
Well, anyway, there you have it.
We have a toilet-licker in the family.
And as any Hollywood A-list couple might say in their time of grief, we ask that you respect our privacy as we come to terms with this.
Thank you.
She watches with astonishment as Mommy brushes her teeth and fixes her hair. But mostly Willow sits in the floor and plays with her bath toys.
She was doing just that this morning as Mommy stood at the mirror prepping and Daddy sat in the kitchen eating breakfast. All was peaceful and routine.
Then the screams started.
They were the screams of a panic-stricken Mommy, not of a hurt baby.
I have to deliver full disclosure here. In the flurry of excitement, I don't recall exactly what was said, but it was something like, "Brian! Oh, my God! Brian! Come here! Oh, my God! Clean her hands!
"And CLEAN HER TONGUE!!!"
< OK, in a sense of obligation to the dramatic pause, I'm going to pause dramatically here. >
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Let it sink in.
Tick.
Tick.
There. Good? OK, I will continue.
I dropped my fork and rushed, no, walked very briskly into the bathroom, where I spotted a flustered Mommy and a happy baby ... a baby who had pulled up onto the toilet. Willow was standing there, grinning (the seat was down) and running her hands over the toilet.
"SHE LICKED THE TOILET!" Mommy gasped.
I carried Willow into the living room and used a pair of wipes to scrub her hands and mouth. I didn't wipe off her tongue, though I told Mommy I had.
When I returned to my breakfast, Willow crawled back into the bathroom. And, you guessed it, she pulled back up onto the toilet.
I don't know what a baby thinks, but in these instances, she must be thinking, "If Mommy and Daddy made such a big deal about it, there must be something to see. I'm going back for some more!!!"
Well, anyway, there you have it.
We have a toilet-licker in the family.
And as any Hollywood A-list couple might say in their time of grief, we ask that you respect our privacy as we come to terms with this.
Thank you.
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