Besides from lugging home a brimming canvas sack of books and issuing eighteen reminders to share toys at the train table, there's one thing that unifies the trips that my girls and I take to the library:
We never have good bathroom experiences there.
One visit, it's a diaper blow-out with an empty container of baby wipes. Another day, it's an accident on the floor mere steps from the toilet.
Today, however, everything seemed to be going well. Before we left our house, Brooke used the bathroom and I changed Kerrington's diaper. After playing at the library for some time, I proactively ushered them into the restroom again.
Flawless, I thought.
As I helped Brooke wash her hands, I glanced in Kerrington's direction. Our eyes momentarily locked. Without warning, she beelined toward the toilet and plunked a plastic zebra (contraband from the play area, undoubtedly) into the bowl.
Before I could flinch, she plunged her hand into the toilet, fished out the zebra, and then -- here's where it gets too painful for words -- she licked that zebra. A full-on, open-mouthed, slobbery, slow motion, extended lick.
Then my child, my sweet little baby, lowered her hand and smiled at me as toilet water trickled down her chin.
There are no letters to adequately convey the pained noise that I came from my mouth -- some twisted blend of nooooooo! and violent shuddering intermingled with involuntary gagging.
I have nothing more to say about this right now.
Go on, toss me a vote to make up for this traumatic experience.