Shotgunned By 20 Questions From A 7-Year-Old

A few days ago the boy came down with a 102 fever.

Typically he man-handles the fever, throws it on the floor and tells it that “your mom’s so fat she wears a VCR as a beeper.”

But this time, the fever got the better of him and stuck around for a while.

So, the next day we call the doctor, set an appointment, and a couple hours later I’m on my way to get the boy looked over.

It was upon this journey that the he unleashed a fury questions that almost had me comatose, crying, and begging to just be put out of my misery.

Hell Hath No Fury Like 20 Questions Shotgunned From A 7-Year-Old

“What are they going to do to me daddy?”

“Take your temperature, listen to you breathe, listen to your heart, and probably…”

“Will I have to take my shirt off?”

“I don’t know buddy, probably.”

“And my pants?”

“I doubt it. You’re sick around your throat so I doubt they’ll…”

“I remember going to the doctor one time and I got down to my undies and then the doctor pulled them out and looked down at my pee-pee. And she was A WOMAN!!! Will I get a shot?”

“Yes, probably in the neck.”

“DADDY ARE YOU SERIOUS?!!!”

“No dude…I’m kidding. No, you probably won’t get a shot.”

“Will I ever get a shot again in my life?”

“Yes, we’ll be getting one as a family in the next few months before flu season.”

“REALLY? Will they do it in the arm or in the leg?”

“Probably in the leg, Grayson.”

“Will it bruise me?”

“I don’t know, but if you ask me another…”

“What causes bruising?”

“Well, the shot breaks the skin which injures it and causes it to bruise on some people. I think.”

“Do I have the flu right now?”

“No Grayson, I seriously doubt you have the flu. It’s not…”

“How do you know? You’re not a doctor?”

“Why did you ask me then?”

“Do you think mommy bruises?”

“I know she bruises dude. That’s why she’s always running away from me?”

“Because you bruise her? That’s mean daddy.”

“No…no…not like that. I meant…just, you know what, let’s listen to some music and just relax for a bit dude.”

“Will they have bathrooms there?”

“Seriously? You seriously want to know if they have…”

“What if I have to go boom boom while she’s taking my temperature?”

“Ok, now you’re just being ridiculous. Do you want me to stop and get you a diaper?”

“DADDY!!! NO!!! But…can we stop and make Macy wear one?”

“Want to play the quiet game with me?”

“Will my doctor be a woman?”

“Yes, all the doctors here are women.”

“Will they take my pants down?”

(I mumble) “No, but daddy might take his pants down if…”

“What daddy?”

“Nothing, I was just thinking out-loud.”

“About the doctor?”

“Yes Grayson…about the doctor…hey look…something shiny out the window!!!”

We arrived a short time later. This, my dear readers is one of many reasons why I sometimes fall asleep crying almost every night.

The Evolution of Shit

When my wife was prego she went through a variety of different poop cycles. Some days too much…some days too little. Then around the eighth month of pregnancy came the “what?! You poop while you push the kid out?!!” realization that ruled her mind until it came time. I was there…yes it’s true…you poop while you push. And yes…I had the easiest freakin’ job in the entire hospital wing…I stood, I sweated, I thanked whoever rules us above that it wasn’t me, I cried, I cut the cord.

Back to the poop.

Then there’s the baby poop – the black tar poop. Baby’s should be born with a damn ice scraper to get this crap off their skin. It’s a miracle it only lasts for a few days. But just when you think you’re out of the woods, comes the breast-fed poop. The light brown, seedy poop. It looks like the baby ran away from home, found some shady friends, hid under a freeway and freebased seeds and split pea soup for a week. Oh that stuff is fucking foul.

But then the poop’s taken up yet one more notch and that’s the cruelest part of the entire scenario. You’re sleep-deprived, dropping C-Notes on massive packages of diapers, taking stock out in wipes, and spending baby’s nap time praying that this is the worst of it. Then come the blow-outs. And it’s never convenient. It’s always when you’re driving to the grocery store, handing the baby to Aunt May, or a split second from the most precious picture the idiots at Picture People could have ever taken. That’s when you hear the sound of your sweet, innocent child’s colon unleashing a stream of seedy shit right through the diaper, up their back, out their arm sleeves, and filling every fat crevice they proudly own. The only positive – you just bought a shit-ton of stock in wipes.

Then comes the stage where it’s no longer poopy..it’s just plain shit. Turds to be exact. You pull the diaper off and they roll out. Sometimes they’re half smashed…most of the time they have you quickly grabbing to pull your shirt over your nose. But if they could talk..they’d say, “that’s right bitches…it’s time for potty training.”

So their shitting in the pot now…and it’s cool! Right?! No…no you’re not done yet sucker. Now comes the time where you still wipe their ass. Dropping mad cash on diapers is gone, but you’re still putting your hand right smack dab in the crack of their ass…..and it sucks. You teach them to wipe themselves..sometimes it works, sometimes you’re tossing a ton of Shout on their stank skidmarks. But you’re getting closer….

Then it happens. They shit in the toilet! They wipe themselves! They're even OK with shitting in public restrooms!!! And then…you move into a one bathroom house. Why?! Because other people’s shit is destined to be a significant part of your life FOREVER!!

So now, just when everyone elses shit is their own problem and I can't even enjoy my own - I get interrupted. Jumping around outside the door, knocking every two seconds “I gotta go daddy!!” And the newest…every time I start the shower for the boy, he’s about to step in, then he says, “I gotta poop daddy.” So I turn everything off and wait…and wait….and wait….

I guess in a few more years I’ll update this recap of the evolution of shit in my life. It'll ramble about the boy claiming to shit when I know he's really stroking one out. Or how my daughter obsessively text-messages when she claims to be dropping the kids off at the pool. But none the less…I have no doubt…shit will continue to rule my life.