My youngest, a lovely, precocious nearly 3-year-old girl who — if I’m not careful — will soon make Lindsay Lohan look like Mother Theresa, had her first real playdate this week.
A nice little girl and her mom came over the house after preschool for a little of whatever ex-toddlers like to do. They were getting along fine and there was no screaming, gurgling sounds or blood, so the mom and I stayed out of the playroom and enjoyed something rare — adult conversation.
Until mom checked on them and wrinkled her nose.
"Did someone have an accident?" she said.
At that moment, I freely admit, I fell victim to smug parentitis. When mom said "did someone..." I knew right away who bricked. My daughter, ahem, has been potty trained since last summer.
Embarassed mom went through her bag, looking for a diaper.
I subtly let her know how — shall we say — advanced my little girl is.
"Oh my gosh, we don’t have any diapers and we got rid of the changing table."
Mom went out to the car and got a diaper. I did supply the baby wipes, explaining how good they are on wine stains.
"That’s why we keep the around."
I could not have been more of a douche.
But don’t think there wasn’t payback. Mom left the diaper with me, tastefully wrapped up and placed in a plastic bag like some fecal birthday present.
Touche.