I feel as if this is one of the funnier things I’ve written.
It’s been a long time since my last letter. Inspiration hasn’t struck and that sort of thing can’t be forced. Recently, however, after spending a weekend with the in-laws, a strange occurrence involving my daughter and mother in-law re-awoke the mock-epistolary muses, breathing metaphorical life into the words streaming out of my fingers, onto the keyboard, into my computer somehow, and across the inter-webs.
But first, allow me a moment to share a tiny bit of background information. Here’s what you need to know: I have a two-year-old daughter who is recently potty-trained. However, she still doesn’t like pooping. It isn’t that she doesn’t like pooping in the potty. It isn’t that she prefers pooping in her pants. No, she just doesn’t like pooping–and yes, I know, that’s weird. I mean seriously, for many people, a good poop is often the highlight of an entire day. But my daughter…
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