P Be Sick. P's Got Some Major Pooty.

So in lieu of a Weekend Rewind--and the weekend was great, especially the warm air, the baseball game on the radio, the grill going, and the general uplift that all things spring can bestow--I thought I'd add to our posts under "pooty." Mostly because 1) that's what's on my mind, and 2) because "pooty" is a funny word. And after what we've been through today, we need all the laughter we can get.

First off, P is okay. No emergency trips to the ER or anything. He's been his typically sunny self, aside from looking peaked and, well, christening the little chair with material that resembles that found in a toxic waste dump. I've been spared the uncomfortable nausea that came and went in my first trimesters with the boys--until today. But the cause was not the in utero child; it was the likely-Rotovirus-infected toddler. Eeewy. Gooey. Lest you freak out by reading the way-WAY-more-than-enough-detailed Wikipedia description, just keep this in mind: P does not attend daycare. He's never chugged Pedialyte like it's apple juice (unlike many other young children we know--thank goodness!). He didn't eat much today, but he did drink vast quantities of water, apple juice, Sprite, and generic Pedialyte, so the odds of him getting dehydrated are minimal. This is getting too serious, so I'll move on.

Picture: P in the bathtub as I clean the sink/toilets/floor again. He looks up, says to me: "I farted." I say (and pray), "You didn't poopy in the tub, did you?" He looks. He LOOKS. "No." He goes back to playing.

Picture: P standing in the hall, making noises out of his nether regions that sound like cattle lowing and stampeding at the same time (wait: does this sound like a typical Elsea love-fest with toilet detail? C-R-A-P. I was hoping I missed that gene). His comment, said with a toothy grin: "I tooted."

Picture: P grimacing as he ingests some medicine in the PM to, erm, stop 'em up. (Side story: lovely Papa visited all three pharmacies in town to find said over-the-counter med by direction on P's doctor, and all three were sold out. Hmm. Guess this is going around. So he drove to Sioux Falls to get it, after already driving 150 miles this morning on a church errand.) He says, "Daddy's a rock star." Then he says, seconds after licking the spoon, "I feel all better!"

So as you can hear, we're weathering the pooty storm all right. Just pray that A) the disinfectant freakin' WORKS so none of the rest of us get this! 2) Papa and I can give thanks in all circumstances, like: at least P is potty-trained so we're avoiding mucho clean-up duty; it's spring and there's sunshine aplenty; we have a commercial-grade washer and dryer... and D) we can all learn to take pooty messes with grace and even, yes, a little humor.

Extra Credit Questions: Did Jesus have BMs? And if He did, did He ever joke about them?