Act 1 (From a stool in the bathroom, where I found Gbot at 6:02 a.m., smearing my too-expensive old-age concealer all over his pajama top):
Gbot: “I am putting this on my shirt to make my shirt pretty.”
* * *
Act 2 (From the back seat):
Mbot: “Mom, are you old?”
Gbot: “Are you going to fall apart?”
I lied of course, and said no. Everything’s relative. And, if, like they say, the dust in one’s house is made up of ninety percent human skin, then yes, I am falling apart and am accumulating at record speed, along with the other ninety percent of our household dust–the dog’s hair–in every corner.
* * *
Act 3 (From the middle of a pool of potty on the kitchen floor after an extremely rare accident) :
Me: “Oh, Bug, it’s okay. What happened?”
Mbot: “I got shot by a potty rocket.”
Those darn potty rockets. They’re everywhere. After I’d mopped up with peroxide, he exclaimed, “Wow! Potty makes the floor shiny!”
So email me and for a nominal fee, I will send you an endless supply of custom, freshly homemade potty, made right here in America. It’s just the thing to get all that dust, which is really mostly you, up off the floor. I wonder if it gets concealer out of pajamas?