So we went to the batting cages today and afterwards the lad asked if we could go to dinner at a certain pizza restaurant across the road. I happened to know that the wife loves it when someone else cooks dinner and then washes the dishes, so, although any reasonable man upon reflection would not decide to go to one of these restaurants, which I shall not name, I said, “Sure.”
While we were eating dinner, the lass, who is not quite three, and is potty training, had to go to the bathroom. This little girl for some reason I do not know, but for which I am often grateful, insists on having her mother exclusively as her second in these situations. So the wife, in a heroic move which probably knocked off a day or two from her stay in purgatory, despite having the babe attached and nursing, and with a half-eaten slice of pizza destined now to grow cold on her plate, cheerfully led the lass off by the hand toward the far end of the dining room as the lad and I told each other stories.
As I later was told (just now), the lass said, upon entering the bathroom,
“Is this a port-o-potty?”
I guess you had to be there.