Yesterday a little five-year-old voice piped up from the backseat: "Mom, is this your diarrhea?"
I beg your pardon?
"Is this your diarrhea?" the little voice repeated. I looked in the rearview mirror to see Joseph holding up a little notebook that had fallen out of my purse.
"You mean my diary?" I asked, at which point there were gales of snorty laughter from the eight and nine year old in the back.
For the rest of the day they burst into spontaneous chuckles, and at my questioning glance they hooted, "WE’ RE LAUGHING AT MOM’S DIARRHEA!"
There’s not an ounce of dignity left.
Not an ounce.