Evolution of a Peaceful Poop

Oh how I used to love the man-throne. I loved the comfort of slamming my pants down to the ground, situating my overly white-ass on the porcelain and just knowing for the next 10 minutes (give or take an hour) I was gonna be free of any/all responsibilities, chores, conversations…you name it.

When I was a teenager I was a huge fanatic of dipping (yeah, the sexy tobacco habit where you tuck some Copenhagen awesomeness in your lower lip) and of Mario on Game Boy. I’d sit in the bathroom for close to an hour, dipping and playing Mario.

Oh…I definitely didn’t have to poop…I was just camped out avoiding reality and enjoying every damn minute.

Then came college where the toilet was the only place you had enough time to knock out a solo masturbatory quickie. You sure as hell couldn’t do it with the roommate in the room. Showers were a free-for-all for pranks. If you made it through an entire shower without getting cold water dumped on you, attacked by garbage, or your hot water being cut off…well you were the man. Obviously the showers were no place to try and “take care of business.”

So the shitter became the go-to place to knock one out.

Then you get married…and there’s the first few awkward times where you know you’re about to peel some paint off the walls with colon fumes, but you just can’t do it while the new lady-friend was in the house.

The wifey never had that problem. I remember one of the first nights we first lived together I was walking towards the bathroom to pee and there she was, door open, perched on her throne, reading a magazine, relaxed as hell, and all “I’ll be done in a few more minutes. Can you wait?” like it was nothing. A part of me died that day.

Then we had kids. And I swore, I’d never share a bathroom with my kids. And for a while I didn’t have to…till we moved to the urban life that is Chi-Town. Three bedroom house, one bathroom…and that one bathroom has no lock on the door.

It’s inevitable—whenever I need to do my business, a small, embedded microchip goes off in the kids’ brains and bladders and says “hey little bastards listen…I know you’re all watching SpongeBob and having a good time and stuff, but your dad’s on the shitter. We’re moving into Code Brown mode now kids…get up, go pound that bathroom door like you mean it and make your old man cry!”

I’ll stand at the top of the stairs, “anyone need to use the bathroom.”

“Nope – I’m good dad,” the boy will scream.

“Nnnnooooo!!!,” the daughter will echo.

Two minutes later…at least one of them is doing the “pee pee dance” outside the bathroom door explaining how they’re about to pee themselves and everything within a 10 foot radius.

By the time I’m able to enjoy the solitude of the porcelain gods again I’m pretty damn confident it still won’t be on my own. It’ll be my wife having to lift me, place me on the toilet, then stand their disgustedly tapping her foot and asking “are you done yet?”

And I’ll do my doody duty and remember back to when I was a young buck and hearing her mutter the words “are you done yet?” was for an entirely different reason.

Focus Danielson

At what point during my boy’s life is he going to not need to be told things 3,428 times before he actually freakin’ does it? I’m just wondering?

Saturday, I told the boy to go get socks. Four minutes later, as I’m running around getting stuff together to leave, I realize he’s still upstairs. So I go check and he’s lying on his bed reading a fucking book!

“Grayson! Dude! That’s awesome you’re reading a book, but…get…your….socks…on!”

Shocked that I would be rattled by this, he says, “I am daddy, I just needed to check something!”

He appears five minutes later with his socks…in his damn hands and stands in the living room doing nothing. A small drip of drool appears on his lower lip as he’s looking out the window into nothingness. Apparently he has become a dog who only knows how to receive and accomplish one command at a time.

“Seriously Grayson? I mean seriously? You know we’re trying to leave to go into the city. You know all that is required in order for you to walk outside in a foot of snow and 10-degree weather, but yet, you need me to walk you through it step-by-step.”

As soon as I finish that last word, he turns and looks at me and says, “Hey daddy, you know on Wii, on Mario, on World 6 when you’re fighting Bowser. His hat is weird!”

I just had to sit down after that. In what freakin’ world does this kid live? Mario’s World I guess.

Can I please have a huge dose of whatever the hell he’s got running through him to where he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the time continuum?

“Focus Danielson!!!!” I yell. This has become his least favorite phrase from me.

“Stop calling me Danielson daddy!!”

“Then put your socks on, then your boots, then your hat, gloves and coat and come…on!!!”

“I ammm!!!”

Every time we leave to go somewhere or to get ready for bed, we deal with this. And it’s leaking into my everyday life.

I’ll catch myself telling wifey we should go ahead and go to the store, “so please go get your socks, your shoes, your gloves, your hat, your coat, put on those jeans that shows-off your ass so I can watch you as you walk in front of me. And please take that damn Snuggie off so you don’t end up on some random website for wearing it to the store, and consider having sex with me tonight. Now! Hurry!”

Maybe I take the “I’m only going to tell you this once” approach and if we spend the day waiting on the boy to get his socks, then so be it. Or maybe I need to make a chart? Shit…I’m going to need a chart aren’t I—a hardcore Supernanny Jo Frost-style chart complete with jars of reward stickers, high fives, and hugs. Or maybe I’ll just super glue them to his feet.

Or, maybe I’ll just chalk it up to the fact the boy’s head is constantly swimming with new information and is going a million miles an hour thinking about Mario, snow forts, biking, hating his sister, and whether or not his experiment in the freezer is done yet.

Maybe I should just go on Xanax.