My 4 year old son recently discovered what mankind has known for thousands of years: You can actually poop outside. Not on a potty chair, but in full view of God and man.

     He’s actually gotten quite good at it, sort of. He will go in a location that we all walk on, but isn’t visible from anyone doing dishes in the house. (We’ll discuss dishwashers in another blog.)

      Most recently, he got away with 3 of them before poop started showing up in our house. On our shoes. Now we have an assorted pile of shoes, and rubber boots outside of the house waiting for someone to take the garden hose, a scrub brush, and chemical handling gloves to the petrifying organic material on their soles. I look a little funny at work, walking around in a left footed flip flop, and a left footed ski boot, but hey, what are you gonna do?

     It isn’t like we don’t have facilities for the little tykes to use for relief. And even though we have six kids, there is never a line for the Lou if you run downstairs, upstairs, or outside to the rented porta-potty. (If you have six kids, I recommend you rent a porta-potty).

Being the loving parent that I am, I tell my errant son that he has to take some toilet paper, and pick the stuff up, and drop it in the porta-potty, or he won’t get anymore Hot Wheels cars for the rest of his life. That usually does the trick, but I can’t find out why he keeps on doing it. When I ask him  the reason, he simply says “I was HEADING to  the porta-potty. I’d believe him if the porta-potty wasn’t 180 degrees the opposite direction from the messes.

Have you ever noticed that the word “toilet” begins with the word “toil?”