Our septic tank buried somewhere in the backyard may disagree, but according to our son who was standing in the doorway with a satisfied smile and his pants at his ankles, he… “had the hang of the wipe.”
That our son’s wipe technique means we’re down a third of a roll of toilet paper and left with a gasping toilet is of lesser concern. What matters is how proud our new wiper is. Of himself.
how completely okay I am to be relegated to ‘bun checker’ (to spare the undies).
I was certain the ‘good’ life began when we kicked the diapers to the curb. But this…this devout wiping on his own…um…I don’t know…seems heaven be shining down on the Munsons.
Just, uh, pray for our toilet when you get a chance.