Yesterday Lula informed me, as she always does, that she "had to go to the bathroom" (not her exact words, but ten years from now she'll appreciate that I didn't use the c word) and then asked where the trash can was.
"The trash can? Why do you need it to go to the bathroom?" I half-consciously mumbled, trying to string a necklace with the Octopus Formerly Known as Malko sitting on my lap.
Lula's reply came in her new aren't-you-just-a-silly-mommy tone: "For the toilet paper, Maman. Geez--what are you thinking?"
The toilet paper? Oh my god...
"Uh, Lula? You know, you don't actually have to put the toilet paper in the trash anymore. We only had to do that while we were in Costa Rica."
"Oh," she said, and I sat there staring at a bunch of tiny beads, wondering how I forgot to tell her: Not in Costa Rica=toilet paper ok in toilet. For no less than three months, since we came back, she's been merrily putting it in the trash. How in the hot-diggity-doodie did I miss that?
I don't know how I missed that, but at least it explains the Mystery of the Overflowing Trash Can--the trash can whose wastefully crumpled contents I was blaming on a certain esposo and his annoying (but NOT annoying to me! Oh no!!!) sinus infection, but which now strikes me as totally endearing. A trash can full of used toilet paper, ENDEARING?!
I must be totally in love with this girl.
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