While I was at the gym early this morning, Randy was awakened by an MJ who was completely soaked from the waist down. "I peed, Daddy," she told him -- which is really the way you want to start your day: being notified of preschooler potty activities gone awry. And then she handed him one of her clean shirts and a clean pair of underwear. Which is resourceful if not entirely correct.

The mystery was: Where was the rest of the pee? Her bed was dry, so that wasn't the scene of the crime. No carpet puddles were discovered in the upstairs jurisdiction. Hmmm...

So, when I got home shortly after "the incident," I asked her , "MJ, where were you when you went?"

"Nothing," she said, which has become her go-to answer for every question. (Which I kind of love, if it weren't so obviously incriminating.) And then she said, "In there," pointing to the bathroom next to the laundry room, into which I had just walked to get a clothes basket. And then I heard a splash.

"If you peed in the bathroom," I asked, staring down at my bare feet, "what am I standing in right now?"

As it turns out, the puddle extended across two rooms, from the one in which she had just missed making it to the potty in time, to the one where she opened up the dryer to get that clean shirt and undies out for Randy to change her.

At least she knows her way around a laundry room. This gives me hope that she'll be able to take care of herself when she's an adult ... well, if she can find the bathroom in time.

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