Big stink lines wafted from my two-year old daughter. She was blurring the background view as she stood in her overripe diaper.
“Did you poop, Brontë?”
“NO!” She yelled, running behind the couch.
“It’s okay if you pooped,” I reassured her, “Everybody poops.”
Popping her eyes above the couch, she considered what I was saying.
“Mommy and daddy poop,” I told her, “Grandma and grandpa poop.”
She paused to reflect on this as I continued, “Princesses poop. Anna and Elsa poop.”
At this, she burst into choking laughter. “PRINCESS POO!!!!” She screamed, eyes tearing up as she continued to belly laugh.
What a novel concept, the very idea that the goddesses of frozen castles and marshmallow monsters would poop just like the rest of us.
“Did you poop, Brontë?”
“Yeah, I poop,” she confessed, breaking into a giggle. “I poop princess poo.”
Bubbles and Beebots 