“Baby, wipe your nose.”
My toddler scuffled to the bathroom and came back with a crumpled toilet tissue. Except she, for whatever reason, wiped her tongue, too, and paper became stuck to it.
She coughed. She hacked. She gagged. She left to try to wipe it off, presumeably.
She never came back.
I should’ve checked why. Instead, I was curled up with my heating pad watching Dancing with the Stars on DVR, not noticing the silence.
Twenty-or-so minutes later, she emerges, hair slicked back, face soaked, tongue wagging, talking to me in gibberish while drooling e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e. “Baby, what the heck? What did you do!?”
I could see soap bubbles from across the room wadded into her hair. She rubbed one of her eyes, and I jumped, hoping soap wasn’t involved. “Kids! I need your help!” I called to the others, needing reinforcements. She needed to get into the bath, STAT.
But not without getting photographic proof first.
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