Close Call

I can't remember what it was, but Henry walked into the kitchen while I was making something and asked if he could have a taste. I said sure. He was a little nervous about tasting it and asked what it was. Messing with him, I told him it was diarrhea. He looked at me, a little grossed out and asked, "Really?" To which I replied, "Really. It's really good." He ate it.

It reminded me of something that happened a while ago-- Henry was three old and just really getting the #2 potty training thing down. He had just announced to the world that he had to poop. He ran to the bathroom and a minute later called me back to show off his good work. Wanting to praise him for a job well done, and actually being quite impressed, I said,
"That's good, Henry!"
"Really?" Henry asked.
"Yeah. It's really good!" I said and then turned around to fix my hair in the mirror. I looked back after a couple of seconds and saw Henry slowly moving his doo-doo-tipped finger to his mouth. Absolutely horrified I yelled, "HENRY!" His finger was about an inch from its target. "Don't eat your poop! That's nasty!" I yelled loud enough to scare him and he started to cry.

I realized that when I told him that his poop was "really good," he understood it in the edible sense of the word. Some things do not need to be learned by experience.