I was sitting at my computer in the dining room, writing my next great American novel. My five year-old daughter, Clara, and my two year-old son, Charlie, were upstairs playing. My wife was shopping.
From the top of the stairs came Clara’s little voice. Tentative at first and then more confident.
Clara: “Dad, I could use some help.”
Me: “Yeah? With what?”
Clara: “Well, I thought that Charlie might want to try to use the potty even though he’s never used it before, so I took off his pants and his diaper, and then I got him to sit on the potty, and I told him to pee and poop. And while I was telling him, I needed to pee and poop, so I sat on the big potty and peed and pooped but Charlie didn’t. I checked his tushy and there was no poop anywhere. So then I put his diaper back on but I don’t think it’s on right, so maybe you could come check for me, please?”
First, I typed up everything I had heard, as best as I could remember. It was too priceless to risk forgetting.
When I found Charlie, his diaper was strapped to his thigh. His pants were around his ankles. He was only wearing one shoe. It was on the wrong foot.
Big sisters are the best.
