Friday, October 08, 2004


The Perfect Son and I have a regular morning ritual: while I’m getting ready for work, he comes into the bathroom and takes a dump. We talk. He grunts. I gag. And when he’s finished “dropping the kids off at the pool,” I wipe his tush and send him on his way. I’ve tried several times to enlist him to wipe his own bottom, but his typical four-year-old impatience and inaccuracy usually leave his underpants looking like a catastrophic workplace mishap at the Tootsie Roll factory.

During our Poo-Poo Pow-Wow this morning, The Perfect Son asked the following question: “Daddy, is this tomorrow?”

Such a simple question, but at 7:21 in the morning – before I have had my Fiber One or said one insulting thing about Matt Lauer – dumbing it down for the lad was an exercise in futility. I would have had an easier time providing a high-level overview of quantum physics than answering this riddle.

“Well, that depends, buddy. If someone said tomorrow yesterday, they mean today. OK? But if they said tomorrow today, then they mean tomorrow. See? Because tomorrow means the day after today. So when did someone say tomorrow?”

The Perfect Son looks at me but says nothing. He’s pooping.

“…because yesterday mommy bought me a sugar cookie and she said I could have half now and the other half tomorrow. So…[grunt]… because… [grunt]… you know … I just want to know if it it’s tomorrow so I can have the rest of my cookie.”

“You haven’t even eaten breakfast yet, pal,” I say, wiping the excess shaving cream off of my face. “How about if we go out and have some Raisin Bran right now and we’ll talk about the cookie tonight.”

Again no response.


“Yeah, bud.”

“I’m done going poo-poo.”

I have two children under five years old, which means I have been changing diapers and wiping cute, squishy little tushies since the Clinton administration. But I still haven’t gotten used to the idea of looking at another person’s dung, even that of my own offspring. The Perfect Son assumes the position as I unspool 20 yards worth of Quilted Northern and wrap it around my hand, wrist and forearm. I lean over to do the deed and I see that my son has deposited a steamer the size of a Ford Escort into the toilet. I don’t know whether to be proud or horrified.

“Do you feel OK, bud?” I ask.

“Yeah. Can I have my cookie now?”


At 2:03 PM, Blogger Laura said...

I found your blog through a comment you left on dooce. You're a brilliant writer! I hope you continue to post often; I've been wanting another blog to follow.


At 9:59 PM, Blogger PedroTheBruin said...

At some point they stop asking you to wipe them, but they never stop visiting you while you're trying to get ready for work. Which is nice.

At 5:22 AM, Blogger Gigi said...

Love this post! We have 2 boys and the youngest still yells for us "Mama/Daddy, come wipe my butt!" I laugh everytime he says this because I imagine him doing this when he's like 30 because I sometimes feel it will never end.

And the tomorrow question -- awesome! We get that too. Don't you love how their minds work?!!

Love your blog! I'll be back daily!

At 8:58 AM, Blogger Lala said...

That was a very funny poop story. Great descriptions. I was laughing out loud which doesn't happen as often as I'd like. You could use baby wipes, you know, there's nothing demeaning in that.

At 12:29 PM, Blogger Christine said...

Daaaaaang! Now everytime I see a crappy Ford Escort I'll laugh... even more than usual. Hehe.


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