BUTTERFLIES

Today's blog topic presented for discussion: urine threshold. As in, precisely HOW MUCH urine is considered inconsequential and may remain spattered on any/all bathroom surfaces, still allowing the bathroom to be branded "It's fine." (said with eye roll and attitude~bless their surly teen hearts)

The answer? ENORMOUS discrepancy on this one.

Offspring standard~If the whizz drizzle is a mere spray, it requires a cursory smear with one (1) square of dry toilet paper and the "don't ask-don't tell" policy comes into play. However, good news~if the piddle has puddled and dried, it's no longer considered a threat, becomes invisible and smells enchanting.

Mother standard~And let me be clear about this...THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS PERMISSIBLE PEE, PEOPLE! NONE, NUUUUUUUUUWWW, NEGATORY! There is ONLY the angry, loud lament of "Good hell I must have apes for children!" Followed by the sniff, swear and scour.

Now try as I may, I cannot figure out when the metamorphosis occurs between vacant child with no sense of sight or smell, let alone accountability for their own bodily emissions~into self aware adult with animal instincts enabling them to take a quick whiff of the air and point directly at the offending toddler in a crowd of thousands. But I do know it will be necessary for their survival. And not just out in the wild...in this here home as well. Sometimes mothers eat their young, you know.

In the meantime, I shall drag myself coughing and sputtering out of this river called "denial" and immediately suspend assigning the caterpillars in my family to jobs that are meant for full on Monarch's.

Now please excuse me, as I think I smell a child across the street. Something is amiss and I must put his fanny to my face and sniff.

It's what butterflies do.

P.S.~I just went out on my porch before tucking the house down for the night and OH. MY. FREAKIN'. HOLY. COW. The most wonderful surprise on my front steps...a giant bottle of Dr. Pepper and two absolutely stunning "Artful Blogging" books tied up in satin ribbons and an antique postcard, from the lovely Brenda! She's the owner of "Just a Bed of Roses," which is my FAVORITE antique/diamond brooch/vintage stuff store EVER. And can I just say, "YES! MY LOVE IS UP FOR AUCTION AND SO FAR, BRENDA IS THE HIGHEST BIDDER!"

Anyway, the message is clear, dear friend~ "Your blog may be humorous, hon, but it is visually...impaired." Subtle like a crow-bar to a kneecap. We'll call you "Blunt force Brenda." Okay, geeeeezzz. I'll step it up. But just REMEMBER...I am still but an ugly, wormy caterpillar. It may take a while to emerge as you intend me to be. :)