"Alice? Do you have to go potty?" I asked. She wasn't holding herself, but she didn't seem right.
"I already did," she stated matter-of-factly. No emotion, no expression, just the words.
"What do you mean, 'you already did?' Pee didn't come out just now, did it?" I couldn't believe I was asking this question. We were at my friend's house and Alice was playing race cars with her son. There was no way my four year old peed in the living room of my friend's house.
"It came out." That was all she said. She was killing me with her lack of concern for peeing mid-play.
"Where did you pee, Alice?"
"Over, there. On the rug."
Oh. Em. Gee. My daughter peed on the rug. At someone else's house. Sigh.
"Alice!! You can't just pee on the rug! What were you thinking? Why didn't you stop playing and go use the potty?"
I contemplated rolling up a newspaper and swatting her on the nose. Or maybe I should have pushed her face down and rubbed her nose in it.
"I don't know. It just came out." That's all she had to say for herself. No shame. No embarrassment. She had peed on the rug in the living room of someone else's house and she didn't even seem phased.
"Alice. You get upstairs and wait for me in the bathroom. I am very upset with you. I can't believe you just peed on the rug! Like a dog!" That's right. I said it. I compared my daughter to a dog.
I can recall a time not too long ago, Alice was forced to poop in the grass near I-95, and she was devastated to be defecating like a dog. But this? Peeing on the carpet? This she's okay with? Just when I think I have a clue about little kids, she makes me realize I haven't the foggiest.