Mitchell's Playpen Punishment

Rowan, Mitchell's caretaker, stood with the preschool workbook clutched firmly in his hand. Mitchell's tiny hands reached desperately, fingers stretching toward the forbidden knowledge now just out of reach.

"No more workbook," Rowan declared, sliding the book onto a high shelf where Mitchell's infant arms could never hope to retrieve it.

The waddling began. Mitchell's shirt rode up, revealing Pampers primed and ready for action. Each step a declaration of toddler rebellion.

Rowan leaned in close, his breath warm against Mitchell's ear. A whispered instruction that would become legend. "Take a dump," he said, voice low and conspiratorial.

Mitchell's face scrunched with pure toddler concentration. A thunderous fart erupted—loud enough to make the nearby furniture tremble. His tiny body tensed. A massive dump pushed into his fresh Pampers, expanding the diaper with pure infant might.

The playpen loomed. A kingdom of potential chaos. Mitchell gripped the bars, his tiny hands declaring ownership of this new territory. Another fart. Another push.

A baba appeared—the golden ticket to block-playing freedom. Drink first. Play later. The universal law of toddler existence.

Mitchell: Chaos Incarnate.

The playpen awaited its tiny dictator.