Envy me / Pity me
Envy me.
The Kid came in and woke me early, as he's done every day this week, but then went on his way without much further input. I might have preferred to sleep until oh I don't know SIX, but given that that wasn't an option, lying in bed reading magazines for an hour while the sun shone in and birds sang loudly wasn't a bad second choice.
Eventually, like the iron filings they are, the monsters all (including the dogs) gravitated to me, and we all stumbled downstairs together at seven. Out onto the deck, where we all (including the dogs) ate cereal and drank orange juice. (The dogs have the Kid to thank for their share of breakfast.) I read the Times while The Boy had a second helping of Organic Cereal In Smug Packaging The breeze blowing o'er the fields across the way reinforced the pastoral setting. The whinny of the horses up the road getting their morning constitutional was interrupted only by the sound of the school buses going by. iTunes served Dave Brubeck followed by Thelonious Monk. I cleared the table, baby-proofed the kitchen and took a hot shower.
Pity me.
While I showered (in general, I prefer a nice, soul-cleansing, womb-returning, wallpaper-loosening three-hour orgy of hot water and suds, which I still observe sometimes on weekends, but this was my usual weekday responsible-parent slip-in-soap-up-rinse-off-roll-on-home), The Kid took a crap in his diaper, then loosened one of its strips, so most of its contents spilled onto the (white) rug in his room. Its other strip remained intact, though, so swung around his ankle like a tetherball as he wandered out of his room, leaving little tidbits; he then used his new weight and proficiency to defeat the baby gate that stands silent, now useless sentry over the door to the office. (The office is, in theory, the one Adult Safe Zone here at Toad Hall.)
To exercise his newfound freedom, he used a brown Sharpie to decorate the Wacom tablet and his own chubby arm. The only document he pulled off the desk was the multi-page contract confirming Her new job, which was awaiting only a signature and a stamp, but is now covered in poopy-foot poop (from stepping in the diaper). He gave the FM transmitter a good enough knock that I am now listening to right-channel-only mono. And did I mention that The Boy also dropped a load in his diaper? Did I mention that he's so old and so big, now, that when he does, what I clean up is roughly the mass and weight of an adult human head?
On the way to school, The Boy asked, "Daddy, what are we doing?" which is one of his usual Zen inscrutables (the most common is "What's that?," while not looking or pointing at anything). Today, though, I had a good answer:
"We're driving fast and playing the radio loud, because that's what you do on a morning when you get poo on your hands."
I mean, it is, right? Isn't it what you'd do?
The Kid came in and woke me early, as he's done every day this week, but then went on his way without much further input. I might have preferred to sleep until oh I don't know SIX, but given that that wasn't an option, lying in bed reading magazines for an hour while the sun shone in and birds sang loudly wasn't a bad second choice.
Eventually, like the iron filings they are, the monsters all (including the dogs) gravitated to me, and we all stumbled downstairs together at seven. Out onto the deck, where we all (including the dogs) ate cereal and drank orange juice. (The dogs have the Kid to thank for their share of breakfast.) I read the Times while The Boy had a second helping of Organic Cereal In Smug Packaging The breeze blowing o'er the fields across the way reinforced the pastoral setting. The whinny of the horses up the road getting their morning constitutional was interrupted only by the sound of the school buses going by. iTunes served Dave Brubeck followed by Thelonious Monk. I cleared the table, baby-proofed the kitchen and took a hot shower.
Pity me.
While I showered (in general, I prefer a nice, soul-cleansing, womb-returning, wallpaper-loosening three-hour orgy of hot water and suds, which I still observe sometimes on weekends, but this was my usual weekday responsible-parent slip-in-soap-up-rinse-off-roll-on-home), The Kid took a crap in his diaper, then loosened one of its strips, so most of its contents spilled onto the (white) rug in his room. Its other strip remained intact, though, so swung around his ankle like a tetherball as he wandered out of his room, leaving little tidbits; he then used his new weight and proficiency to defeat the baby gate that stands silent, now useless sentry over the door to the office. (The office is, in theory, the one Adult Safe Zone here at Toad Hall.)
To exercise his newfound freedom, he used a brown Sharpie to decorate the Wacom tablet and his own chubby arm. The only document he pulled off the desk was the multi-page contract confirming Her new job, which was awaiting only a signature and a stamp, but is now covered in poopy-foot poop (from stepping in the diaper). He gave the FM transmitter a good enough knock that I am now listening to right-channel-only mono. And did I mention that The Boy also dropped a load in his diaper? Did I mention that he's so old and so big, now, that when he does, what I clean up is roughly the mass and weight of an adult human head?
On the way to school, The Boy asked, "Daddy, what are we doing?" which is one of his usual Zen inscrutables (the most common is "What's that?," while not looking or pointing at anything). Today, though, I had a good answer:
"We're driving fast and playing the radio loud, because that's what you do on a morning when you get poo on your hands."
I mean, it is, right? Isn't it what you'd do?
posted by I. at
5/11/2007 11:13:00 AM
2 Comments:
wow... that's a lot of poop. i do envy your breakfast, though.
Just stopping by on an accidental Google Search, too funny! You should think about writing a book!
Ryan
Eugene, OR
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