Pink Boxes

It was a lazy afternoon.  I was on the couch reading something of great importance.  The sun was warmly illuminating the pages of my book.  “Daddy,” my daughter called from upstairs.  I ignored her.  I was enjoying my book.  She’ll go away, I thought.  “Daddy,” she called again.  I took a deep breath and kept reading.  For a few minutes, all was quite.  I read.  “Daddy,” my daughter said.  She was standing in front of me.  I hadn’t noticed her, engrossed in my book, walk down the stairs.  She was naked and holding a box.  “Hi, sweetie.”  I went back to reading.  “Daddy, I pooped.”  “That’s great.  Make sure to flush the toilet and wash your hands,” I said between sentences.  “No, Daddy.  In my box.”  “What?”  “My box, Dad.  I pooped.”  She held up the small-pink box she was holding between her hands.  I was torn.  Was she lying?  Had she actually pooped in a box?  Should I be mad?  Should I laugh?  Did I want to see it?  “Regan, look at me.  Did you poop in that box?”  “Yep,” she smiled.  “Why?”  “It’s pink.”  I came to a decision.  “Why don’t you leave it on the front porch and have Mommy take a look at it when she comes home?  Can you do that?”  “Ok, Daddy.”  She walked outside and dropped her box on the doorstep.


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