The Babe: "I am NOT going to wipe my bottom."
This, after his parentage flatly refused to wipe UNLESS he tried first. And had the toilet paper to prove it.
The Babe: "Help. That's all I need."
Mike: "You need to wipe your bottom."
The Babe: "I'm NOT going to wipe my bottom." All the while, he's walking around with his much-too-long-soccer-tee-shirt cranked up to mid-chest, to protect it from any dingleberries that might infect it.
The Babe, in his sweetest, most kind voice: "Mom? Will you please wipe my bottom?"
Me: "Only if you tried and you have toilet paper to prove it."
The Babe groans and throws his head around like a crazy rock star, mid-show, when the pain pills and vodka tonics he drinks on stage start to work. It's all head, designed to make a point. The Babe's point? You people are just ridiculous. It's just a little wiping.
The Babe: "OK. I'm just going to get poo on my clothes. Is that your choice? Yes? OK." I swear he's four going on 24.
He walked away from me and I have no idea where he is. Hopefully, he's not sitting somewhere other than a toilet seat or, later today when he's at preschool, I'm going to find a nice poo spot in the most unexpected place.
Apparently, The Babe is channeling Doug in the "I refuse to cooperate in the poo department."
Now, if we can get Doug to channel The Babe, we're making progress--I'll take a back-talking dog who poos in the toilet. Especially because I won't have to wipe his behind.