After returning home to my parents' house after the 4th of July bicycle parade on the square, I heard a tiny voice in a distant place calling for some timely assistance."Will somebody help me. . .? Mommy. . .? Somebody. . .?"
Upon hearing the voice, I began the search. With my ears as my guide, I found my son perched precariously on the white throne staring at an empty brown toilet paper roll uncomfortably awaiting someone--anyone--to bring him some more TP. Who knows how long he'd been waiting there, but when he saw me the relief on his face was obvious. I apologized for the delay in hearing his call as I opened the cabinet high above his head where my parents keep their stash.
Me: Sorry about that, guy. . .I didn't hear you calling.
Him: Oh, that's okay. (watching as I reached on my tippy toes for a new roll among the many on the shelves) Mom?
Me: Yes?
Him: I didn't know that Momo (my mother's grandmotherly name) was so rich!
Me: Why do think she's rich? (as I shut the cabinet and replaced the empty TP roll holder with a new one)
Him: Mom! (exasperated, as if his reason should be obvious)
Me: What?
Him: Didn't you see how much toilet paper she has!
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