Rosemary's Baby likes to clean the toilet for me. Only, his version of "cleaning" really just involves taking the toilet brush, or plunger--it doesn't matter which--and splashing toilet water all over the bathroom. It's delightful. Really.
So, this afternoon I was busying myself with all kinds of important Christmas preparations. Or, I was browsing Zappos for sale-priced open-toed shoes with a four-inch heel that I can't afford, or ever possibly use. I don't remember which. But anyway, it occured to me that Rosemary's Baby was giggling in the bathroom with the door closed. And that could only mean one thing. So, I hot-footed it in there to find him in his favourite toilet-cleaning position, grinning at me from ear to ear. There was water absolutely everywhere.
And then the smell hit me. Someone hadn't flushed.
Rosemary's Baby is still not partial to peeing in the toilet, so it wasn't him. I don't subscribe to the "if it's yellow, let it mellow" philosophy, partly because my dogs like to drink in there and they're just not that discriminating, and also because I like to at least live in a house where there isn't pee in the toilet at all times. I don't think it's that much to ask. So anyhow, this means it was Firstborn. I can't really yell at him though, because he learned it from his father.
So, I spent the next half hour scrubbing down the bathroom with the freshest-smelling household cleaner I could find and hoping I hadn't missed a spot. And now my bathroom smells faintly of pee and orange Lysol.
I'd put coal in his stocking, but I'm pretty sure he'd find a way to turn it against me.