If ever I deserve points, it's now.

Last week, Will was getting ready for bed, or rather NOT getting ready for bed when he should have. I told him to go to the bathroom multiple times, and finally I went downstairs to avoid some serious mama-meltdown. Surreptitiously snarfing chocolate (the vice of choice in the Ginger bread house), I heard a loud SLAM then a whole lot of screaming from the upstairs bathroom. I ran up there and Will was screaming, crying, slapping his private parts.

Yes. You guessed it. The toilet seat fell on his you-know-what.

Full of the milk of human kindness, I said something along the lines of, "If you hadn't been fooling around and if you had gone to the bathroom when I first asked you that wouldn't have happened." Logic notwithstanding. Whatever. Obviously I hadn't consumed enough chocolate and was still thoroughly annoyed.

Well, two days later, he said, "My bottom [that's what we call everything--front and back] is all different colors." I looked and sure enough, the tip was colorfully bruised. Ow.