Future yard boy

I was outside grilling the other night and AJ provided some comedy as only he can.  First off, he absolutely thinks he is my little sous chef.  We got him his own stool for the kitchen because he really thinks he needs to "help" whenever I'm cooking.  This tendency now applies outside as well.  "Daddy, are we going to grill?" he asked as I readied things.  Yes, son.  Yes we are.

This time I made a tactical error in that I was doing the meat on the grill outside, while cooking stuff on the stove top inside that also required my attention.  It wouldn't be a big deal, except I had to go back and forth frequently, leaving him unattended for a minute or two at a time.  Safety wasn't a concern, because he absolutely knows not to go near the actual grill, plus the grill was in my sight the entire time .  It was more a matter of what else he might find to occupy himself with.  Case in point: I ducked into the kitchen and came back out to find him getting animated.  "Daddy, there's dog poopy over here!" he exclaimed, pointing to a spot on the far side of the lawn.  And he's right.  There was.  We don't scoop up every doody every time.  I know that's terrible.  I've been doing a big, full pass of the lawn before I mow and that has been working out okay.  Until now.

He knows what dog poop is.  He's knows it's dirty.  I recommended stepping away from the poop and leaving it alone.  I had to duck back in, and upon returning the brown yard bomb was still the focus of his attention.  "Daddy, let's clean up the poopy!"  A noble sentiment, to be sure, and one that he was fully aware of because he has seen me do it.  But I didn't want to deal with that particular chore while cooking.  I think that makes sense.  I explained this to AJ and went inside to check on my side dishes.

The next time I came out, he was standing over the poop spot, with almost all of it successfully raked onto the pooper scooper, trying to empty it into the little trash can we keep out there for that.  The problem was that I hadn't put a fresh bag in since the last time I emptied it.  This frustrated the young lawn cleaner.  "Daddy, bring me a plastic bag!" he demanded excitedly, hovering over the can, balancing the turds on the scoop.  Fine.  If he wants to clean up that badly, I'll get a garbage bag in there and he can finish the job.  Better him than me.

I did just that, popping inside and right back out quickly, trash bag in tow.  I found that he had moved on to another canine deposit he had discovered.  He was picking this one up too.

With his bare hands.