With my nephew getting near potty-training age, I recently got into a discussion with Joe’s dad about the age at which this is usually done. He recalled that Joe was peeing on his own by 2, although mastering number two took a bit longer. “We had a lot of trouble getting him to go,” he said.
I KNEW it! I married a classic Freudian anal retentive, and have been paying for it ever since. The man never lets anything go, not poop, not fights, and certainly not any of the useless junk cluttering up the house. It’s the primary reason the place is as much of a mess as it was when we moved in five months ago.
Besides being unhygienic and obstructive (anytime you navigate the living room, you have to be prepared to twist an ankle), it’s starting to give me a reputation as a slob. So I went on the warpath and designated this Clean-o-Rama weekend.
Just in time, too. When I got home Friday night I discovered that the cat, lacking any floor space on which to puke, had turned to our only lamp instead. It’s going to be a long weekend.