There are things that you learn to accept when you get older--your car becomes a site for future archaeological finds regarding fast food toys and papers and crumbs; your precious things with delicate pieces either rise to higher places or they become just precious memories of things with delicate pieces; and your toilet paper no longer appears in a neat roll.
Jack would crawl on his hands and knees to any bathroom, and as soon as he stood up, he would securely rest one hand on the lowered seat, which we found had to remain closed to keep tiny hands dry and sanitary, and the other one he would spin the toilet paper so rapidly, that even having trained an ear to know what was happening prevented you from stopping the entire roll from not facing the ultimate test of gravity.
It would rest in a pile near Jack's feet, and our little playmate would look at us ever so sweetly, proud of what he now could reach and confident of what he now could do with his own two little busy hands.
The important thing to remember is this: five or six years later is when you realize that toilet paper doesn't have to rest in a normal spot for a brief time, not because it isn't the acceptable way but because remaining that way would not create pictures for a blog like this. Besides, the little ones are only small for such a brief period of time, and suddenly problems become so much more complex. And besides, a pile of TP on the floor is not something that will alter Western Civilization as we know it.
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