I believe strongly in cake. Birthday cakes. Valentine’s Day cakes. Graduation cakes. Cakes to say hello. Cakes to say good-bye. I Heart Cakes cakes.
So not surprising that:
- I would buy a cake much too big for E’s birthday.
- We would enjoy eating it for weeks.
- We would get another cake for my birthday.
- I’m eating that right now.
After one said eating opportunity, E chooses to wash his cake hands in his glass of water.
E: Mama can I drink it?
Since I could not answer quick enough in my sugar-induced coma, he quenches his thirst with a cup full of cake before I’ve decided whether this is weird. (I’m still up in the air about it. Although I’m still eating cake so my understanding of life is all soft and confectionery.)
E: Oh, it tastes like cream.
Me: Hmmm… I didn’t know that.
E: Where is this going? Is it going to my penis?
My mouth stays silent while my eyes start yelling: OMG, did he really say that? Am I going to have to give more of THE TALK? Are penises all we are ever going to discuss for the next ten years?
E: Or is it going to my poop-contestant?
Which is a fancy way of saying intestine. Or a brilliant idea of how my family can find fame and fortune.
Because how much would we rock The Price Is Poop? Or the 10,000 Farts Pyramid where you could only use bodily functions as clues? Or if the Supermarket Sweep actually had contestants race around a grocery store trying to find a bathroom with a toddler and a preschooler and a stomach virus. Bonus points for not flashing your opponents and for having wipes.
Now that last one sounds impossible. You probably win cake in a cup. Or a year supply of awesome. Or Facebook. Or an iPhone 4 that doesn’t hang up on your friends right when you’re being hilarious.
Good luck my fellow poop contestants. And Happy Cake Day.