Tonight after brushing his teeth, 3-year-old F — because he is 3 and does not respect The Order in Which Things Ought to Go — flossed them with one of those pre-strung plastic doohickeys. Then he dropped the flosser onto the bathroom floor.
“Hey, pick that up,” I said.
He glanced at the floor, and then at me. “It’s the Eastern Garbage Patch,” he replied.