The curtain rises on an idyllic suburban living room. Quietly, something disturbs the carefree ambience — a subtle, barely audible grunt from the corner. The Lovely and Talented Wife’s ears perk up and she asks, eyes narrowing, “Are you poopin’?”

The Boy holds his breath for a moment, pushes, exhales loudly. He looks my wife directly in the eye and replies, “No.” Time seems to slow. The Wife leans forward. Sensing danger, he makes a quarter-filled-diaper poopy scramble for the door.

For a moment, the wife is startled by his swiftness. She shouts, “Hey! Ha la la la la! Stop!” She charges and catches him. But he is not about to give up so easily. He can’t escape through force, perhaps he can confuse her. He asks, “What does halalalala mean?”

She replies, “It means stop.” He looks morosely at the floor. He changes the subject. “What’s that?”

“It’s carpet,” she says.

Eagerly, he asks, “Carpet? What does it do?”

But she’s heard that one before. Boy and Wife disappear into the bathroom.