Holler Days of Yore

Bradley walked around the corner from the back deck, shrieking the words "poop! poop!" as loud as his voice could shriek. I panicked, "WHERE? In your pants?" He shrieked back, "No! Shoe!" I looked down at this tiny sandaled foot and saw that he had stepped in a pile of fresh Bella poop someplace nearby. I immediately took his shoe off, rinsing it in running water. We set out to find the offending pile-o-poop.


The pile looked totally innocent (to me), sitting alone, though now, disturbed on the back deck, t'was quite nearly fresh as a, well, fresh - we'll leave it at that --with a tiny sandaled footprint planted perfectly in the center of the pile. A work of art! The teeny footprint entrenched deep in the doo.


I shuddered.


Who does that? 
I mean, really, who does that?


I said to Bradley, "Why did you do that?" To which he replied, "I don't know."


Remember when you were in pre-school and someone -- let's say it was your teacher  -- instructed the class on how to make your hand imprint in plaster of paris? This craft would become a holiday ornament with a neatly tied red ribbon, cherished by all for years to come. Yet no one ever asked "Why did you do that?"

The Cole sisters in the days of yore