Can't I poop in peace?

Yes, actually I can... and that was exactly the problem. I should have known. It was too quiet.

"Yay-eee!" From the other side of the bathroom door I hear his cute little sing-songy voice. While I manage to flush the toilet I don't give myself the time to do up my pants - I have a feeling this is going to be a bad one...

"Look, Mama, look."

He holds up this blackness that I can't distinguish as anything familiar. And then I realize it's dripping. Dripping black. A bottle. And it's empty.

Ink.

I grab the bottle and then him, not knowing what to do with either. I plop him on the sink. My hands are now covered in ink... and my pants are still undone.

He stands up, his feet bleeding black down the drain. When I ask him to sit down he grabs my arm for support, leaving a long smudge on my sleeve - thank goodness I'm a drab dresser and always wear chocolate brown. I'm trying to figure out what to clean first and with what. I don't want to ruin my towels. I'm also aware that when presented to me the bottle was empty, which means the contents (that aren't all over Tator, me, or the sink) are somewhere else.

I finally get my hands sufficiently clean to do up my pants and I venture out into the hall. Little black footprints lead me to the scene of the crime. There I am presented with an oil spill of toddler proportions... and a cat... about to walk through it. I grab him, but not before his front paws hit the puddle. I shoo him away and he skitters off leaving a trail of kitty prints along side the human ones.

My house was built in 1870. The floors are oak with cherry inlays. Beautiful. They're one of the reasons I fell in love with this house. 139 year-old floors in almost perfect condition and in less than one minute - big black splat. And I discovered I don't own a bucket. A mop, yes; bucket, no.

All this happens at 8:48AM, two minutes before I am supposed to leave for work... and then I discover T has pooped in his clean diaper...

Honestly, I'd be surprised if he hadn't.