First up, caulk is evil. It is Vonnegut's Ice Nine, Spiderman's nemesis Venom, that mirror in The Matrix, that dropped vial in Moonraker. Alright, I'm clearly scraping the bottom of the analogical barrel now, but it's a disgusting, cascading mess that you can't touch or touch up, and whatever the plumber or tile guy extorts from you for putting it down, just pay him and be happy about it and take your kid out of the house for as long as that shit takes to dry.
Because otherwise, you'll be finished retiling your bathroom floor, and you'll be caulking the edges yourself while your wife's out of town, and then your 18-mo kid will want to know what you're up to, and you'll tell her no, go play in the other room, and she'll kid with you a bit, and then she'll leave. And then you'll go behind the door to try your new trick of using an old credit card as a smoother around the sink, and you'll be damned if it doesn't work pretty well. And maybe on this, the last thing you needed to caulk, is when you finally get the hang of it, after burning through an entire roll of paper towels, one swipe per sheet, as if crude oil were white goo you were wiping down the beach after the Exxon Valdez. And you'll come back out from behind the door to find the quiet is not, in fact, because your daughter is playing quietly in the other room, but because she's playing quietly right behind you, in all the caulk you just laid down, and she'll have caulk all over her--hands, legs, face, hair--and you'll call out to her, "Noooo!" and she'll only put her hands on her head again. And then you'll register the hand prints and thigh prints and footprints--because she'll have stepped in/on it, too--all over the floor and walls and furniture. And so you'll scoop her right up and drop her in the tub, contain her, and then you'll just start mopping the hell out of everything in sight. And so you'll have to let it all dry out and do it all over again when the kid's asleep.
So yeah, pay the plumber his due.