Dopple-G mentioned how much he enjoys a certain type of my stories. Ones like this, or this, or maybe even this. I always aim to please, so...

The other night we had finished with the washing up and sent the boys to put their pajamas on. Burger sometimes has a difficult time with his. He can put on a two-piece with no problem but the one-piece jammies with the footies are a pain. On this occasion he had the footie jammies and he called me in to help him out. I got him dressed and then a problem surfaced.

Burger: Daddy, there's a rock in my foot.

Me: A rock? In your foot?

Burger: Yeah. In my sock.

[Side Note: All three boys smuggle rocks into the house and they turn up constantly in the oddest places. A rock in the freshly laundered pajamas wouldn't be an altogether impossible scenario.]

Me: Let me see.

[Burger lays down on his back and lifts his right foot in the air for my inspection. I feel around the footie and find nothing. Of course I took this opportunity to tickle his foot mercilessly.]

Me: No rock in there.

Burger: No?

Me: Nope. Didn't feel a thing except your toes.

Burger: Oh

[He seemed genuinely perplexed by these findings but accepted them. All three boys went into Bear's room to watch a bit of TV before bed. Burger settled himself on the big floor pillows and the problem resurfaced.]

Burger: There's a rock in my sock!

Me: And a gink in the sink?

Burger: No! In my sock!

Me: There's a gink in your sock?

Burger: No! A rock!

Me: A gink in your rock? How'd you get a gink in your rock? I've had a kink in my neck but never a gink in my rock.

[Burger lost patience with me at that point and laid down furiously while raising his foot at me in obvious Imperial command. I checked the footie again and again felt nothing. He obviously wasn't going to be satisfied with another negative report so I unzipped his pajamas and took his right leg out. I reached down the empty leg into the empty footie and found...a rock!]

Me: Hey, there was a rock in there. A bunch of dirt too.

Burger: Told you!

Me: Sure is a funny looking rock. Weird color. And what a weird shape too.

[After a few moments of observation it became apparent that it was not actually a rock. Rather, it was a poo ball. A rock hard lump of poo. A turd that had lain in wait inside the pajamas, mainly survived the wash cycle and then baked into a hard lump much like a poo-fossil.

My mirthful happiness dissolved like ... um ... like a ball of poo should have dissolved in the damned washing machine. So now I've got a poo ball in my hand and a freshly washed child putting back on his pajamas that have poopicules in the footies.

Me: It's poop! Help! There's poop! In his foot!

[Fortunately we've been married long enough that even though I belted out some unintelligible stream of inanity like that noted above, what Lovely Wife understood was more along the lines of "Pardon me, dearest. Would you be so kind as to prevent the child from putting that pajama back on while I go dispose of this ossified fecal matter? They seem to be quite contaminated. Thank you, luv, you're too kind."

I frantically dashed to the bathroom where I flushed the poo rock and washed my hands. While I was so occupied, Lovely Wife managed to stop laughing at me and got Burger cleaned up and in new pajamas.]

The moral of the story? Don't reach down into your son's pants.