My mother in law called my wife to let her know that Gertrude "went poopie" on the big girl potty. Apparently it was a significant contribution to the annals of human waste.
I'm proud of her, of course. As proud as you can be about feces being planted in the proper container. But it made me question my own accomplishments.
What if I peaked the day I managed to use the toilet for the first time? What if, at my funeral, everyone is standing around saying:
"Gary was a miserable son of a bitch."
"Useless too."
"But, damn, he could use a toilet."
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