Late night Heroism

When I picked up Tallulah from school, her glowy, happy shiny smiling face came running to greet me.
"I have the most beautiful, shiny child in the world!" I thought in amazement, looking around at all the other little kids greeeting their parents. Then I saw the parents faces and realized they thought the same thing about their children.

But I was right.

Last night I was reading in bed while after Tallulah was supposedly tucked into bed (which last night meant she was on the floor with her pillow and blanket 'camping out') when I heard this:
Smack smack smack smack smack (little feet running down the hallway to the bathroom)
Bathroom door opening, then closing and
smack smack smack smack (little feet running immediately back to the bedroom)
Sob Sob, sniffle, sob.

The sobbing was intense: the sound of a 14 year old's broken heart, an ice cream scoop disconnecting from its cone and hittting pavement, a favorite toy misplaced. It was the sound of tragedy.

"What's wrong, baby," I asked, scooping her up into my arms. Her arms and legs wrapped vise-like around me. Sob, sob, full body shudder, sob. I moved down the hallway carrying my bundle of sorrow. I suspected what the problem was and, as I walked down the increasingly darker hallway, opened the door to the bathroom, and saw the complete, cavernous dark of the bathroom, my suspicions were confirmed.

"Was the bathroom too dark? Did the darkness scare you?" A tiny head nod.

I helped Tallulah onto the potty and waited as she did her business, eyes closed, tears drying on her cheeks. When she was done she pointed, eyes still closed, in the direction of the toilet paper.

"You want me to wipe?" Head nod.

Then, as I was flushing and washing my hands, my daughter, sad sack no more, smack smack smack'ed her little feet back to bed, tucked herself in, and fell fast asleep.

I had solved the problem. Crisis averted, tragedy postponed. I felt like Superman surveying a restful Metropolis. I love my job.