Today I guaranteed my spot in Dante's lowest circle of Hell. I mean, I might as well start saving for my child's future therapy. So, Eli and I were in Meijer after our lunch date at Wendy's. We were in an aisle by ourselves and I felt the urge to ummm...well, ease my gastrointestinal tract (fancy way of saying toot).
Sweet mercy, it was a doozey. Silent and horribly, horribly violent. So we're still in this aisle and this ubiquitous smell is unrelenting. I started wondering if I had swallowed some road kill in my sleep. So, I'm trying to decide between a couple of things for Eli when another family turns into the aisle. A sweet family. An innocent family. A family who did not hide the disgust they felt when they walked into my sulfuric stink fest.
And then I did it. So unforgivable.
I turned to Eli and said, "Eli, did you go poopy? Peewey."
That's right, Internet, I blamed my flesh and blood, my beautiful baby boy. I made a beeline to get out of the aisle and apologized to my son after we were out of earshot of the gasping family in aisle death. He just smiled, but I could see the look of betrayal in his eyes.
And I know if he's anything like his father, he will someday get me back.