I had finally found a moment to sit down and deal with the most pressing of issues (i.e what should my status say on Facebook) when Bubba-Love calls from upstairs that he's poopy.
Lovely. My favourite thing. Wrestling a 3 year old out of a dirty nappy, trying to wipe him clean before he rolls over, runs out of the bathroom and goes and jumps on my bed. Fun.
"I'll be right there, honey," I call back at him.
Now, it must take me all of about 2 minutes to roll my tookus and belly off the computer chair and start heading up the stairs.
As I reach halfway, a smiling Mini-Husband bounds down to greet me.
"Don't worry, Mom. It's all taken care of."
"What's taken care of, " I ask?
"Bubba-Love's poopy. I got him to lay down, I wiped him and then I put the dirty nappy into the trash can."
And with that, a clean smelling three year old comes sprinting past us. I grab him for a quick peek to verify the situation.
"See," says Mini-Husband, "he's fine."
OK. Great. Wow. Oh My God. This is....this is....well, lovely!
"Thanks, sweetheart. That was very nice of you."
"No worries, Mom."
This can't be the same kid that won't eat vegetables or clean his room or play nicely with is sister, now could it? The one who is now sitting in the lounge making farting noises with a balloon?
But, yes. It's is. This 7 year old in question just did something that Hubster cringes to do, something that I dream of never having to do, WITHOUT ASKING.
I'm waiting for the lightening bolts or the earthquakes to start any minute now.