It’s probably happened to most of us who have children, at one time or another. Or so I tell myself. One of my children had a tonsillectomy three days ago and hasn’t been able to eat. So she wanted me to make some instant potatoes, much smoother than my mashed potatoes. No problem! I didn’t have much interest in peeling potatoes today, anyway. My dear husband asked me to make a salad and he headed out to the grill to cook the meat. He was even sweet enough to change the two-year-old’s poopy diaper before going out. Awesome! As I sliced a cucumber into the salad, the milk and water heating on the stove, the two-year-old came into the kitchen, held up her right foot and said, “Poopy, Mommy.” Oh no! That poopy diaper Daddy changed must have been a doozy. One look at the floor where little Miss stood with her poopy foot revealed several splats of icky stinky brown. Kitchen and dining room floors, both peppered with splats. It looked like a war zone, if poo was a weapon. I think it could be an effective one. Anyway, I cleaned the poo off the two-year-old and the floors and returned to the kitchen, where the milk and water for the potatoes had, of course, boiled over. What a mess! The family seems to be enjoying the meal and no one is covered or walking in poo at present, so I guess all’s well that ends well.