Tonight my wife was feeding our son. I went downstairs to get the medicine he’s taking, which has to be stored in the fridge. When I got back upstairs, I encountered my wife in the hall, carrying our son in her arms.
“Gotta poop,” she said.
“Don’t you want to leave him with me?” I asked.
She. Kept. Walking. Everything slowed down to slow motion.
Finally my brain processed that what I had interpreted as “[I’ve] got to poop” was actually “[he’s] got a poop” and, rather than hauling our kid with her into the bathroom while she sat on the royal throne, she was actually taking him to change his diaper.
The cognitive dissonance for that thirty seconds, though…wow.