I thought that the toilet was the one place where I could rest assured that for five entire minutes while #2 is being shown who's boss there would be no tomfoolery of the near three-year-old variety.
Noun: The potty. Defintion: A veritable toddler straight jacket in the form of a porcelain bowl that holds tiny butts in one place.
As it turns out, I overestimated the maturity level of my near three-year-old and the confining qualities of the toilet because during the small span of the 2.43 minutes between him screaming "I'm DOOOOOOOOOONE" and me getting there [which by the way should be noted that he screams "I'm done" at least three times before he is actually done and I have yet to figure out why he screams it when he's not actually done because how are you fooled by your own poop I mean don't you know that you're not done and if so why bother yelling it other than trying to torture your poor mother slowly and painfully because she once accidentally hit a squirrel with her car another life and didn't stop and now it's payback time] he unraveled yet another roll of toilet paper and covered the entire bathroom in baby soap.
But instead of bursting into tears, I cracked a beer, cleaned the entire bathroom with the toilet paper and soap, and then thanked him that it was the soap he decided to spread around the room.
And not poop.