Eleanor has a shiner and Mia shat her pants on purpose. How the black eye happened was a mystery for a day or so until Randy explained a door incident. The bruise looks just like dark eyeshadow, expertly applied, blended out from the crease. The first days it was smoky Devil Wears Prada black, now it’s fading to a Jessica Lange in Tootsie brown. We may get a little Christina Aguilera green in there. Painting so close to her precious blue, the door that applied this shadow used the most delicate brush with disaster. I look at it and feel a shiver of possibility, a wash of gratitude.
Mia’s poop needs no description. She was standing at the kitchen island, performing a puppet show for us using chopsticks topped with plastic animals, when she paused in her narration.
“Mommy, do you smell poo?”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking it’s one of our frequent family farts.
“I pooped my pants,” she says nonchalantly.
I check her pants and to my horror, yes, she has. She is four and half years old. This is disturbing. She laughs as I clean her, then cries and screams and flops on the ground as I try to dress her. The reassuring competent mom in my head says, “this is testing boundaries, seeing my reaction.” The I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing prone-to-flirting-with-hopeless-thoughts mom says “she is reverting to an infant. Because of the emotion in this house.”
The next time she uses the bathroom, I give a big cheer.