My most refined post to date

I'm sorry to say it, but Dennis is home sick once again.  It was a good day to hide in bed, though: Ella and Alex both had school for most of the day, and it was easy for me to take Joey out of the house, to give Dennis some space for napping.

After lunch, Joey and I grabbed our scooters and rode to a playground down the street, the one next to the recycling center.  Feeling like an exceptional mother, I watched Joey carefully empty out our bag of recycling, feeding our beer cans and wine bottles into the appropriate bins.  Some parents, I suppose, have their children sort blocks, or crayons, but where's the fun in that...for mom and dad, at least?

At the park, I sat in the shade with a novel that I'd stuffed in my pocket.  One good enough that it was a few minutes before I realized how very quiet Joey was being inside the little playhouse where he'd been hiding.

"Joey, what are you doing in there."

"I...um...I...nothing!"

"Joey...Wait! Joey, do you need to go to the potty?"

"No...NO! No poop! I just playing! I promise!"

I've been telling Joey for ages that if he can go a week with no accidents, I'll buy him a little Playmobil truck that he's been lusting after.  There's a picture of it, taped to the wall next to the toilet, and he stares longingly at it every time he sits down.  But I think he's started to get frustrated.  I say this because he's starting to become a little sneaky.

Like the time he had an accident in the kitchen, picked up the evidence, and hid it behind his bedroom door, and then tried to mop up the remains with a diaper wipe.  Finally he realized it just wasn't going to work, and came and handed me the soiled wipe: "Mommy, I need help!"

Me too, little guy.

But he was so adamant this time. I peered inside the little house and didn't see or smell anything amiss, so I decided to leave him.

Two minutes later, Joey strolled out of the house with an air of feigned confidence.  Patting his drooping pants, he gave me a nod. "Just a big rock, mom," he said, briskly

What?

"A rock. Not poop. Just a big rock in my pants." But then, seeing me make a move toward him, his composure broke, and he dropped into a dead run.

Kiddo, I'm on to you.

But it's okay, honey. You can give me underpants to scrub and try to fool me with little white lies.  But be warned: I'm going to post it on the internets.