A few months ago, Piggle learned how to take his diaper off. After about a week of streaking (and painting my walls in toddler stink), he got over it and moved on to bigger and better things—like perfecting his fake cry. I figured I would be one of the lucky moms whose kid never developed a habit of flashing their bits at every possible opportunity. I was wrong.
Yesterday, Piggle decided to celebrate the first snowfall of the year with a happy-dance…in the nude. Who could blame him, right? Everything is better with your junk exposed. If I didn’t hate winter so much, I’d have probably joined in the naked-merriment…because, let’s face it, a weather dance–actually, any dance, really– is way more fun sans-pants. Of course, I have yet to invest in curtains, and aside from the neighbors questioning my sanity and the appropriateness of a family nude-a-thon, I don’t dislike any of them enough (yet) to scar them with the sight of my Post-Piggle Jiggle.
And so it was, the boy rang in a new season in style, and I cleaned the kitchen. Though, I sense a slight unfairness in our roles…
All was well chez nous. That is, until the crashing and banging, the result of Piggle shaking his money-maker, stopped. Just as suddenly as that, not a peep from the other room. Of course, being that he’s related to me and has likely inherited my dreadful sense of rhythm and balance, I fully assumed I’d find him lying in a very compromising position with a fracture to one or fifty bones and a concussion. Thankfully, this wasn’t the case.
As I made to peek around the corner, the boy came flying past me like a streak of lightning. You’d have thought his arse was on fire, judging by how fast he toddled by. And that’s when I knew. Something was terribly wrong. Nothing but a national crisis could have put an end to his enjoyment of flaunting his winky to the world.
At first glance, there was nothing oddly out of place. Sure, a toy-tornado seemed to have ripped through the room, but that’s an hourly occurrence around here. As I searched for the source of the commotion, I looked down to see Piggle, clinging coyly to my leg, with a look of triumph mixed with a dash of pure ‘brat’ on his face. In that moment, it clicked, and my treasure hunt was over. Instinct kicked in, and I knew exactly what I was looking for, where I would find it, and who the culprit was: