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.