About 20 minutes ago I was taking a bath with my son, Emmett. He’s 20-months old, extremely cute (hey, I’m allowed to brag) and a lover of all things “wah-wah.” (water). We were having a great time. He’d dump water on my head, I’d dump water on his. I soaped him up, he giggled and giggled and giggled. Excellent father-son Kodak moments.
Well, while gathering some water in a cup I noticed a brownish tint to the agua. Then I looked to the left and—egad!—a tremendous log of my son’s crap was floating my way.
Instincts took over. “Oh nooooo!” I shouted, before picking up my content (and blissfully boweled) boy and rushing him into the shower. He never seemed to notice we were swimming with his fresh feces. As I write this, in fact, he’s happily watching some pre-bedtime Elmo. I, on the other hand, am repulsed.
Ah, fatherhood.
* Writer’s note: In light of the Mariners releasing Richie Sexson, I was going to use this space to write about the time Richie, as a young Indian slugger, shook my hand after dramatically jingling his balls. Luckily for Sexson, he was out-grossed by the floating log.
