In the past I've written about my daughter's "laser beam butt cannon." Several of you have taken exception to my use of this term, so I'm changing it to something more appropriate, like "doody catapult."
Don't believe me? The proof is in the pudding, or to be more specific, splattered on the door.
Last night as I was changing Anne's diaper, holding her legs up with one hand while reaching for a wipe with another, I heard a loud rumble and the room briefly shook. I would have thought it was a minor earthquake were it not for the loud splatter at the other end of the room.
In the few moments when my hand wasn't holding up her diaper she had managed to unleash a deadly assault from her doody catapult. The door was dented from the impact. And the carpet, well, let's just say we're thankful there's a lot of blacks and browns mixed into the pattern.
A picture is worth a thousand words, and I'm sure the following pictures are going to amount to a thousand choice words from my daughter to me during therapy when she turns thirteen, but I can't help it.
What can I say? Like father like daughter.
The Existential Terror of Battle Royale
5 weeks ago