I took a deliberate 7:30 p.m. trip to Costco last night for the team.
The Home team. Those four of us who’ve been noticing with ever swiftness the evaporation of the last hundred squares of toilet paper. Each of us praying some other unlucky fellow will be the one staring at the empty cardboard with his pants down–not us.
On Sunday night, though, like a late Seahawks touchdown, our son had yelled with great joy from the upstairs bathroom that we needn’t fear ’cause he’d found a whole roll of the stuff. Only in the time it took him to shout the good news, the precious, white roll leapt from his fingers and sank to the bottom of the toilet. He then cried like the 12th man. So close.
Some time yesterday afternoon there wasn’t even a speck of TP to wipe a booger in. Which is why when our son zipped to the loo during dinner, I threw his greasy napkin after him and warned with a smirk, “don’t use it all, if you don’t have to.” He’d nodded solemnly and had returned to the table after an enormous flush with half his napkin.
I suppose I could have darted to Fred Meyer or wheeled into Walgreens a day or two ago. It’s just–I see now–I would have missed the spontaneous singing that erupted when I pointed to that 30-roll pack of TP in the van.
That’s what we’re teaching.