This morning, 22 month old The Mayor was exasperatedly grunting in the middle of the room. When he finished his pushing and straining he triumphantly yelled, "I made it!" as though it was a work of art... a real masterpiece... something one should be quite proud to claim. He then marched to the changing table, turned back to us and said, "C'mon Daddy, let's say bye bye poo poo."
What I overheard K saying to The Mayor on the changing table:
Would you like a little creme on your flanus?
...and later to Rooster Girl:
Would you like a little creme on your flabia?