The Boy & His Poop

Two days and counting. That’s how long it’s been since the boy has pooped.

Yes, I’m going to blab about poop and my son. Before kids, it’s an unspoken topic. Well, that is unless you’re in a dorm room drinking and passing around stories that start with “dude, this one time…”

But then when you have kids…it seems so common to walk up to two parents at the playground after school lets out and hear:

“and so he’s taking this massive poop and it’s blue! And so I freak, right? I mean, the boy’s poop is blue! But then I remember…we ate cotton-candy flavored ice cream last night and it totally makes sense that his poop was dyed Smurf.”

My boy has done nothing but poop pellets for a couple days now. And the complaints that his stomach aches are running rampant. And he’s got all the bad genes I could have possibly passed along…the most notorious being the “worry/obsessive gene.” So if he’s home, he’s sitting on the toilet. And afterwards we get the detailed blow by blow.

He comes creeping down, looking over his shoulder to see where his sister is while pulling us into a secluded corner. In the almost most perfect drug dealer talk he keeps checking over his shoulders while engaging the wife and I in a dialogue about the size and girth of the mini-poop he just unleashed.

Then he quickly ends it with, “and I left it for you to go look at.”

 “That’s awesome Grayson. Umm… how about you start flushing the toilet since you’re giving us such accurate detailed descriptions of your mini creations,” I quickly tell him.

Yesterday we called the doctor who said we should buy glycerin suppositories, slide them in, tell him to fight the urge to poop till he can’t hold it anymore, then let it ride.

SUPPOSITORIES!!

I laughed at the wife when she uttered that sphincter-tightening word.

After she calmly explained I was never to laugh at her again I headed to the store. Standing in the “laxative” isle looking for these damn suppositories was the equivalent of being announced over the loud speaker “customer in the blue hat can’t drop a deuce and I’m gonna assume it’s because he’s got a Star Wars figure or hairbrush stuck up there.”

Along with my purchase I acquired “Rubber Finger Protectors” which according to the package “are ideal for inserting suppositories, applying hemorrhoidal cream and medication to open wounds.”

None of which I had any desire, what-so-ever to do. That’s when I laid the smack-down.

“I refuse,” I told the wife.

The boy roughly said the same thing to the idea.

Apple juice, 1 ton of raisins ingested, and a whole lot of poop coercing of the boy and he finally gave birth to a healthy, happy turd named “Colon Blow.”

Yes he still obsesses about his poops and I’m sure he will be for some time. It’s in the family genes. In fact, I’d be shocked if he ever pooped regularly again.

But I guess what I’ve learned from this experience is…hell, I don’t know what I learned from this experience. I’m just glad the boy finally pooped and I'm pretty confident this blog post will be found through some very disgusting Google search words.

Geeze Daddy!!

Grayson: “OK Daddy!! Geeeze!!!”

That’s the shit I’ve been hearing religiously these days.

All it takes is me telling the boy for the second time to please put his shoes on so we can take him to school.

Or to please take a bite of his cereal that’s been sitting there for the past 10 minutes.

Or to stop telling his 5-year-old sister that he knows she’s lying about the fact she dreamt about a unicorn and when she woke up it was standing in her room.

It’s contagious as hell too. Yesterday the wife happened to catch me walking naked to the bathroom so she immediately threw what she was carrying to the ground and screamed, “fine – let’s do this, let’s just knock it out – geeeeze!!!”

The life of a 7-year-old can be so hard, having to always feel entitled enough to throw-down in a split second claiming you’re owed so much more than what you’re getting.

The boy honestly believes the world is against him these days.

Grayson: “What’s for dinner tonight daddy?”

Me: “Hamburgers chief. Hamburgers, salad and corn-on-the-cob. Good eats my man!”

Grayson: “Awwww come on daddy!! You know I don’t like hamburger…geeeze”

At this point he’s walking out of the room like I told him I was going to run over his bike, kill his fish, and smash all is trophies.

Me: “Grayson…seriously? It’s hamburger. What kid doesn’t want a nice, juicy organic meat hamburger? I’ll even throw some cheese on that bad boy for ya!”

Grayson: “Can’t we have sushi?”

Me: “Seriously? Really Grayson, sushi? Are you buying? We can’t afford that Monsieur! Would you like some champagne with your meal?”

Grayson: “STOP DADDY!!! Not everyone likes the same thing!! Macy likes hamburger, I like sushi! GEEEZE!!!”

I don’t know what the solution is.

We put the smack-down on the boy from ever saying “geeeze” ever again. We’ve told him the world is not holding a major conference in downtown Chicago under the theme “How To Make Grayson’s Life Unfair, Unjust and Just Down Right Sucky.”

He’s a work in progress…like the girl…like the wife…like myself…like the blow-up doll in my basement that still wants me to take her out for dinner before we “get it on.”

A work in progress…

The Negotiator

I called the local police department today to see if they needed a spot filled on their S.W.A.T. team—specifically the role of negotiator. Because holy shit the boy has that down to an art.

Take a small, harmless pack of gummies for instance.

The boy wants gummies. I’m cooking dinner, plan to serve it to the boy in 10 minutes, and therefore I am quick to deny the young heathen his delicious gummies.

I then get hit with, “Ok, but daddy…can I just explain something? See, you packed me gummies in my lunch box for today and I didn’t eat them all, in fact I didn’t even touch them, so then I should still be able to eat them right now cause I didn’t touch them at lunch so can I have them?”

And I look down at the boy and say, “Grayson…for the love of all things Mario Kart…NO!!”

“Yeah, but daddy…can I just say something? They’re really small and won’t take up much room in my belly and I KNOW I’ll eat my dinner so why can’t I just have them now?”

Gripping the spatula with all my might and grinding my teeth to nubs I turn and say, “Grayson…do you see what I’m doing?”

“Yes.”

“What am I doing son?”

“Making food.”

“That’s right. I’m making our dinner. Our dinner Grayson. The bountiful feast we will be shoving into our mouths in less than eight minutes now. You cannot have gummies and if you ask me again, I’ll take each of the gummies and melt them one-by-one right in front of you until they’re a big melty puddle of liquid gummy remains. Kapish?!”

The boy’s head is looking at his feet now as he feels defeat nearing. He realizes he’s got nothing…and he sure as hell doesn’t want to risk the lives of his delicious multi-colored fruit gummy snack because he knows my last statement was anything but a bluff. So he walks out of the kitchen.

But, before I could get halfway through patting myself on the back for a rare victory won without raising my voice against the boy, I see his little red haired head bob right back into the kitchen…only, he’s holding something.

“Hey daddy. What’s for dinner?”

“Stir fry.”

“Oh…sounds good. Hey daddy. I brought you some gummy snacks to have,” he says innocently as he holds out his unopened bag of gummies from his lunch box.

“Sweet! Thanks man,” I say as I grab them from his hand, open them, and empty them all into my mouth at once.

“DADDY!!!!! That was MEAN daddy!!! You knew I wanted those gummies and you ATE them all!!”

I immediately feel the vicious blade from the “worst parent in the world” dagger slide into my gut as I see elephant tears fill the boy’s eyes. I quickly drop to a knee and reveal to him that I faked pounding back the bag of gummies. Then seeing that did nothing to squelch the onslaught of depression and anger towards me I handed him the bag and said, “go down to the basement, kill this bag of gummies, and don’t tell your mother.”

Five minutes later a dim-watted light-bulb above my head spewing sparks and smoke signified that it had finally sunk-in that the little bastard had just made me his bitch. And I knew at that very moment he was sitting in the basement, slowly enjoying his gummies, and marking another notch on his secret score sheet for himself.

Grayson 137     Daddy 0

F-You Daddy!

The wifey and I have had a long-time agreement that when it comes to things like making the kids’ lunches for school, putting them to bed, giving them baths, cleaning their puke off the ceilings, etc…we take turns. And it’s a beautiful thing, this agreement is. Only catch is, the boy loves to have me lay in bed with him and talk once the lights are turned out. So, while I never get a night off, the flip side is that I’ve built an incredible level of trust with him.

In fact, I’ve kind of become his shrink. He lays there, bares his soul, then looks to me for advice. And while I may or may not be the most top-notch guy on the planet to ask for advice from, I feel I still do a stand-up job.

Here are just a few of the conversations to date. (Please note names of the boy’s friends have been changed to those of famous people as not to identify anyone):

The Naked Lady

Boy: “Daddy…R. Kelly has a picture of a naked woman in his room.”

Me: “A naked woman? Really? Did you see it? Does she look good?”

Boy: “Yes I saw it.”

Me: “Well where does he keep it?”

Boy: “Behind a poster.”

Me: “Wow…well Grayson, you and R. Kelly are a bit too young to be looking at pictures like that and looking at women in that way.”

Boy: “I know daddy.”

Me: “If that happens again I want you to bring the picture to daddy immediately, OK?”

Boy: “I will daddy.”

She’s Mine…No She’s Mine!

Boy: “Daddy…Matt Damon and Ben Affleck fight every day on the playground over Fergie and I really don’t like it. They’re both in love with her.”

Me: “What do you mean ‘fight?’ Like throwing fists and hitting each other and stuff?”

Boy: “They grab each other and try to throw each other to the ground. Whoever hits the ground first loses.”

Me: “And then what, the winner scoops Fergie up and carries her off into the sunset?”

Boy: “No…the winner is Fergie’s boyfriend.”

Me: “Does Fergie know this?”

Boy: “No. But they fight all the time and are always telling her they love her and she keeps saying she doesn’t love either of them.”

Me: “Do you like Fergie?”

Boy: “Yes.”

Me: “Here’s what you do. Never tell her you love her because you don’t, you’re too young to even be talking about love. Treat her like you would any other of your friends. Go play with her, get to know her, and let her get to know you.”

Three Days Later…

Me: “So are Matt Damon and Ben Affleck still fighting over Fergie?

Boy: “Yes, but daddy…I ignore it and have been playing with Fergie and her friends for the past couple of days. And we’re friends and have made up a bunch of games together.”

Me: “Atta dude…”…and a manly man tear slides down my cheek.

F-You Daddy!!

Boy: “Daddy…I know how to stick up my middle finger.”

Me: “You what?!”

Boy: “Gary Busey taught me how to stick up my middle finger—see!”

Me: “Whoa…dude. Put that thing away. Do you know what that means?”

Boy: “No, but it’s such a huge finger and everyone laughs when I do it.”

Me: “You know the ‘f-word’ that you’ve talked about hearing before?”

Boy: “Yeah. Oh, daddy? That word is written on the table next to my keyboard in computer class.”

Me: “Wow…well, anyway, sticking your middle finger up is like saying the ‘f-word’ to someone. It’s not good Grayson. Don’t ever, EVER do that again. The school will send you home and mommy will cry.”

Boy: “She doesn’t cry when you do it.”

Me: “That’s different. When I do it to mommy it means ‘I love you.’”

Two seconds later the boy flipped me off and said “I love you daddy!” All I could do was give him a hug and say, “Grayson, don’t ever stick your middle finger up at me or anyone else again. And, I promise I won’t either… whenever you’re watching me.”

The Puke Plague

Sick, sick and more sick.

And I suck when I’m sick and in dealing with the sick. Which has made the past few days random snippets of hell.

After a week watching my son strategically wipe gallons of green and yellow goo from his nose all over our furniture, carpet, and clothes, we took him to the doctor only to find he has bronchitis. Two days later I woke up around 4 a.m. feeling like that douchebag on the Internetweb Machine Thingy who takes a flaming shot and catches his mouth and throat on fire.

I’m the biggest baby on the planet when I get sick—shocker, I know. I have these long, green boot-socks that I put on and I walk through the house silently letting everyone know I’m officially ill and to please back-the-fuck off. And then I disappear to the bedroom for a day.

This past Saturday the wifey and I had the most magical of nights planned. A friend of ours (@momomatics) and us got a joint baby sitter. Kids were sleeping over at their house. I bought 439 candles to light throughout the bedroom. I paid a 36 piece string band to play in our bedroom. Shit, I even emailed Al Green to see if he’d show up to add some extra mojo to the ole love palace. Game was on!!!

We dropped the kids off and the four adults hit the town hard. Beers and shots were flowing, tons of laughing in the air, I was busy razzing the waiter, and I occasionally I’d write little love notes on napkins and slide them over the wifey’s way.

We roll into a 9:30 p.m. showing of Shutter Island and settled in. Exactly one hour later I go pee and I’m standing there as the phone vibrates (cause yeah…I listen to the pre-movie stupid dancing phone douche that tells me to put my phone on vibrate). I look down and it says I’m getting a call from @momomatics.

So I answer, “What woman?!!!”

And I hear, “ummm…this is the babysitter and your son is throwing up.”

And I’m all, “Are you sure? Like, did he just choke on something by accident and he’s better now? Or maybe he’s just pranking you. You should go check and call me back in a few hours.”

She says, “No…no I’m pretty sure he’s sick. There’s a lot of it. And, please tell Ms. (@momomatics) that her toilet is clogged and won’t flush.”

Yeah…that’s how my super sexy, kick-ass, romantic night came to a screeching halt. Half-a-movie, kid puking, and visions of a puke-clogged toilet.

By 11:15 p.m. we had both kids back at our house, son face-first in the toilet, and me, selfishly in a corner holding one of the 439 candles crying and asking “why baby Jesus…why??!!!”

And now…as of last night…the wifey is now getting a microscopic view of the toilet as she “talks to Ralph on the big white phone,” and the boy has started round two of the pukes.

Please let the daughter and I be the last people standing! If not…let it hit me so hard that I drop at least ten pounds…the last ten I need to lose before increasing my running pace by 20 seconds a mile.