Boys are so creative. Wait, is 'creative' the right word?

"You can do it," I told Ethan in that encouraging tone that says I believe in you and also I don't want to do that thing you're asking me to do for you. In this case, I was prepping to paint the kitchen* and Ethan wanted me to escort him to the bathroom, pull down his pull up (I feel like that's some sort of literary device, but I'm not sure which), and watch him pee.

*from Behr's Asparagus, which we've had for three years but turned out more yellow in our very sunny kitchen than I'd hoped, to Valspar's Paris Mint, a more greyed down green

There's a special irony (a confirmed literary device) that being a stay-at-home mother means I'm largely in charge of teaching Ethan how to operate his sprinkler system, a job I'm supremely unqualified for. My best advice to him has been "Point toward the middle of the potty!" while I make sure he's pressed his little legs against the bowl.

Today, though, off to the potty he went by himself. After the sounds of a brief struggle (lil' dude vs. lil' duds), I heard the tinkle of weewee on damp porcelain and, despite my aversion to la toilette, shouted my praise down the hall. Shortly thereafter I heard a flush and the quickstep cadence of little feet in the hall.

When Ethan reappeared in the kitchen, surely to gather more praise unto himself, he stood before me in all his glory. I mean that literally, by the way. He was completely nude.

Whatever works.