Six Degrees of Separation - a.k.a. The Royal Flush
Emma will not use a bathroom in our house if the door is closed and the fan is operating. She knows from past experiences that it will not smell good in there. Because of this, Emma informs all of us when she has to commit a bowel movement.

She is either not aware of others, or she really doesn't care what anyone will think when she announces,
"Mommy, uh, Daddy, uh... don't go into my baffroom cuz I have to go poop!"

Besides the imagery she creates, she also leaves the bathroom door wide open during her "interlude." We are working on that, but we both are really more happy that she is potty-trained.

So, recently, she has started this thing where she warns us, sits upon her throne with the door wide open to the outhouse, and then proceeds to tell us that she can't go anymore, or that "it's stuck" or something similar to that. It is most likely the heavy doses of cheese she consumes on a daily basis, but that is not the purpose of this story.

Today, Abbie and I are completely relaxed and lounging on the couch. Ellie is sleeping and Emma is playing, reading, eating, and hanging out with us. To remain lazy and to keep her busy, we often give her little things to do for us. I like to brush my teeth while I watch television, so I ask her if she would go get my toothbrush. That is when she declares the personal details of how she needs to take a dump before she exits the room and then she will get my toothbrush.

"After you wash your hands, please!" I shout to her as she leaves.

That is when Abbie turns to me and states how she really hopes Emma doesn't announce to the entire preschool during the week that she has to go potty and that they better stay out of the restroom because it will stink.

After a few minutes we hear:

"Mooooom!" Emma hollers from the commode.
"What Emma?" Abbie responds.
"I can't go poop anyyyyymooooore!"
"Do you have to go more?" my wife asks.
"Yes." Emma replies.
"Then either sit and wait a bit longer, or wipe and get off the toilet." instructs Abbie.

I can't help it but say sideways to Abbie on the couch, "Sh!t or get off the pot."

We giggle.

Emma washes her hands and comes out to us. Reminding her again the rules of finishing the job before you leave the john, Abbie begins,
"Emma, you can't be yelling at us from the toilet, you need to ..."

In Emma's common nonchalant way, she shifts the conversation to what is bouncing insider her melon at that exact moment and says to me, "Do you want me to get your toofbrush?" She asks while her mother continues.

"... you need to either poop or get off the pot." Abbie finishes her sentence not even noticing where to the real conversation has drifted.

Emma turns her clinched brows at Abbie and corrects her lecturing mother,
"I didn't say POOP! I said TOOFbrush!"