A Broken Cookie

I walked up to Pax sitting on his potty. He missed the order of operations of again. His urine-soaked pants were at his ankles. The potty was dry.

I asked him to stand up and I helped him take off his pants.

Pantless, Pax ran to his toy truck near by and rolled it around the floor while blowing raspberries as makeshift engine noises.

I took Pax’s pants and threw them in a growing pile of his wet clothes. I grabbed a pair of pants from the dry pile next to the wet pile.

I hope these pants were dry because they were clean and not because the wet pile became the dry pile.

I made a mental note, likely to be forgotten immediately, to rearrange these piles further apart after this parental task.

I walked towards the living room where Pax was pushing his truck around on the couch and I noticed a broken cookie with crumbs on the ground.

The kids must have stepped on it.

I put Pax’s pants down, picked up our handheld vacuum and walked to the broken cookie.

Wait. Did I give him a cookie?

I stopped the vacuum’s nozel right before reaching the cookie.

I noticed the cookie was moist.

We don’t have cookies like this in the pantry, do we?

There was the smell fart in the air.

Ah, shit, that’s not a cookie. Sigh.