Though I didn't document it (you're welcome. seriously.), the last two days have been, well... explosive.
For a solid 48 hours, B3 has been simultaneously driving up our water water bill with all the toilet flushing, and depleting our wet wipe stash with all the boo-hiney wiping.
She's been poopin', y'all. So much that on three separate occasions, she has yelled, "Ope! Surprise poop!" and run to the bathroom.
I thought it was a stomach bug, or that she'd eaten something terrible (it's summertime, which pretty much means anything goes in the meal/snack department 'round this Bee hive). I was right on only one of those counts.
Tonight during the girls' bathtime, I heard my husband yelp. He didn't holler, and he certainly didn't squeal. I'm pretty sure he yelped. Then, like he does, he Instagrammed something. (I can't talk about it. He refuses to tweet. He only lurks on Facebook, but Instagram? He's got hot Swedish stay-at-home-moms liking every one of his weird, random photos. I can't talk about it. Lawd.)
You know what that is?
That's a bar of Irish Spring, friends. With a bite taken out of it.
So, mystery solved. My daughter is a soap biter. And, apparently, a soap eater.
When I texted my BFF with photographic evidence that B3 was not, in fact, suffering Montezuma's Revenge, she wrote back:
Y'all are going to have to find an alternative punishment when she gets to cussin'.
Lord, may we never see the day.