I once read that the average four-year-old asks 437 questions a day.
That's nothing. Junior asks 4,370 questions a day.
He talks and asks, asks and talks. He talks when he's eating, he's asks when he's sleeping. Sometimes when he talks, I lower my head and shield my eyes. I can physically feel his words hitting my head. They're fast, they're furious; I need a superhero helmet to protect me from the battering.
Today though, the bathroom was eerily quiet as I passed by. I knew Junior was in there. He had told me as much—"I have to go to the bathroom don't let Everett touch my toys not even for a minute cause when I get out I'm gonna play with them and I don't want him touching them while I'm in the bathroom and when I get out I want a glass of water with ice cubes and I really have to poop now I can't wait another minute so please come get me if it's been a while and I'm going in now so don't let Everett touch my toys and I need privacy so don't open the door unless I ask!"—in just a few words.
I stood outside the door. Nothing. Not a sound, not a peep. I crept a little closer. I heard the faintest rustling of paper. I took a deep breath and held it. More crinkling. Yes, there was definitely some crinkling going on. Crinkling!
Could it be? Could it really be happening under my own roof?
"Junior? Are you okay in there?"
"Just a second!"
"Do you need help?"
True to his words, he burst out a second later.
"What were you doing in there?" I asked.
"There was no more toilet paper so I got a new roll."
I ran into the bathroom to see if what he was saying was true...
And it was.
Praise be to the Porcelain Goddess, there was a brand new roll affixed to the holder. On.The.Holder. My four-year-old had just accomplished what my husband seems utterly incapable of. I was in shock. I was elated. Whether or not a celebratory tear welled up in my eye is between me and my toilet, but let's just say that as I kissed Junior goodnight tonight, it was extra sloppy and gooey.
I have proof that we can break the cycle. Actual proof.
I'll never look at a roll of toilet paper the same way again.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.