It's Puke Time!

“TRASH CAN!!!!” – those were the words that had me sprinting out of bed like a mad man Saturday morning at the crack-ass of dawn. My precious little princess needed a bucket to bury her head in while she unleashed a fury of puke. She’d been puking since 1 a.m. – roughly the time my wifey got back from her birthday celebration with a friend while I stayed home with a feverish daughter.

I hate hearing her the daughter scream those words. I hate the pukes. I hate when you hold the door for people and they don’t say “thanks.” I hate pooping in public restrooms. I hate when you’re walking down a busy street and you trip on a crack and almost fall, but don’t and are then faced with having to play it off with a slight little jog like everyone’s really gonna believe that you just felt like breaking into a 14-step jog just for the hell of it on the way to work.

So she gets the trash can, pukes…..and pukes….then says, “I’m done. Wash-cloth!!!” And I take the trash can, give her a damp, cool wash cloth to wipe her face and mouth with. Then I tuck her back in bed and go sanitize the living shit out of myself.

Having a sick kid sucks. I hate it more than anything and I’ll do anything to make the kids feel better. But I can’t help but analyze the difference between the two.

Son

Usually he gets one good puke in his bed which wakes him up. Then he stand up, screams “daddy I’m throwing up!!!” while running like a naked banshee through the hall, puke spewing out his nose cause his hands are over his mouth, then he pukes all over the toilet. But from that point on – he makes it to the toilet every time. Of course he always has to announce to me…not the wifey, but me...that he’s puking.

Daughter

The princess in her takes over. She might as well say in her 14^th-century voice, “Oh father dear!!! Father!! Please fetch my golden puking pan! Oh no silly man, not that one, the one mother and I bought the other day whilst in the city. Oh good God father, the ooother one. And it better have a shine to it. I had the butler shine it and if he didn’t well I will just have to get upset, now won’t I. Now hurry up father as I am going to vomit all over it. Bring it here. Now hold my hair and turn away…..I am a lady after all.”

As a kid I remember I couldn’t throw up until I had woken my mother and informed her of the impending toilet decoration I was about to unleash. She was one hell of a heavy sleeper. As soon as I’d get her awake, I’d tear-ass down the carpeted hallway and a good 10 feet from the bathroom I’d just let it launch. Like a dog pissing in his favorite spot in the house, I was drawn to this one spot at the top of the stairs where I’d puke every time.

The wifey’s gotten better, but for a while, she would always give the kids water right after they finished puking. And I’d be all: “Shnookums. You can’t give them anything to eat or drink or else they’ll puke it right back up. You have to wait for a while to make sure the puke bug is gone.”

“But she asked for water and she will get dehydrated.”

“I’d like you to take your shirt off. I’m actually asking you to…does that mean you’ll do it?”

“What is it with you and my boobs?”

“You've got a great rack, but don’t go getting all cocky. I have been known to visually enjoy other ladies boobs.”

“Our kid is puking and you’ve somehow managed to even turn that into a conversation about boobs!!! You seriously need to go to counseling.”

So long story short…we took daughter to the Dr. They said go to the ER. They wanted to watch her overnight. They did a shit-ton of tests. Originally they thought it was a urinary tract infection and/or flu. By the time the daughter came home they were convinced it was only the flu, but still weren't sure. We get test results back on Tuesday. Until then, she’s on tami-flu and antibiotics.

Thanks to everyone who send wonderful thoughts and continually asked about her over the weekend. I can’t even begin to tell you how awesome you all are. Thank you!!

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.

Daddy, I Have to Pee

It’s the dreaded words I can’t stand to hear my daughter say…. “Daddy, I need to go pee pee.”

In my mind I immediately turn to a 3-year-old, throw myself to the ground, start kicking and slamming my fists, crying and screaming “I don’t wanna!!!!” But in reality, I suck it up, pack-up whatever the hell is around me, tell my son “come on dude, you might as well go, too,” then head to the nearest shit factory.

As a quick side note, my precious, darling little angel was born with the magical gift of needing to pee at the worst possible times – especially when it’s just me and the kids. As soon as food is served at a restaurant..she has to pee. Movie just started and we have all our popcorn, drinks, etc….she has to pee. Just climbed aboard the Metra to head into the city…yep, she’s gotta pee.

I’m fine with the boy. Once I taught him to use his damn zipper so his pants wouldn’t land in a heap around his ankles and in a massive pool of piss in front of the urinal – we were good to go. The daughter…well, she has to sit where dudes poo, pee, puke, and whatever other P-words you can think of.

I usually kick open the bathroom door while holding coats, popcorn, food, camera, and all the other kid accoutrements you can think of, and immediately announce, “all right…nobody touch anything but yourself. OK?!!!!” Which is then followed by a simultaneous “yes daddy.”

The boy heads off in his own direction. I then begin a frantic search for the cleanest shitter for my princess to place her precious bum on while also keeping an eye on her to make sure she really isn’t touching anything. I find one with only a dribble of pee on it. Score! Ripping toilet paper out like a mad man on a mission, I clean up after some douche who’s too lazy to use his foot to lift the lid. I stand back and admire the perfect little soft toilet paper seat and announce, “your majesty?! Your throne is ready.”

As she sits sideways on the seat – hands in her lap – I’m glancing around to check on the boy who’s already washing his hands. Score again! I hand over a wad of toilet paper, she gets dress, I kick the handle to flush it, we wash our hands, and we’re done!

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to throw a diaper on the girl before taking her out by-myself. I’ll never do it though – mostly because I’m confident someone would notice, call TMZ and Parenting Magazine, and next thing I know I’ll be on Oprah crying and telling the world what a miserable wretch I am because I hate taking my daughter into the men’s room to piss. Instead…I’ll keep cleaning up after sick fucks so my daughter can keep her kidneys healthy. And one day, hopefully she’ll return the favor by choosing to continue lifting me to the toilet rather than putting me in an adult diaper.