That innocent, sing-songy call from Clare always means trouble.
I was downstairs, switching laundry. I dropped what I was doing, ran upstairs and found a bare vine from grapes, which I had stupidly left on the counter after lunch, on the piano bench. No grapes were left except a few that Simon had chewed and apparently rejected. He ate the whole bunch.
While I was cleaning up the grape mess, Clare headed to the toilet. Simon followed, as he often does. He likes to watch (and smack my bare thighs with his always freezing paws). Clare MUST! HAVE! DOOR! CLOSED! to pee. So I closed the door on the two of them. Simon was sitting on the training potty, fully clothed, when I shut the door.
A few moments later, Clare yelled, “Mooommmmm!!! Simon peed on the potty!”
I immediately started cheering, ready to scoop up my big boy and congratulate him.
Until I opened the door.
He did pee on the potty! But before that, he’d stripped off his pants and diaper, into which he’d exploded with the force of 100 grapes. And it landed business-side down.