"You realize your son is in our bed, right? He scared the sh*t outta me when I went in there."
"Seriously? When did he do that?"
The past few nights around 9pm my son, let's call him Mini-Me, has been getting out of his bed and stealthily heading for mine. Before he does, though, he makes sure to turn the nightlight off in his room.
Seriously.
That's like a convict serving a life sentence crawling through the tunnel he dug through three hundred feet of solid concrete using a plastic spoon only to turn around and go back to his cell when he realizes he forgot to return the copy of Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants that he'd checked out from the prison library. I mean, really, what 2.9-year-old takes the time to turn all the lights off when he leaves a room?
It's moments like that scattered throughout my mere 2.9 years as a parent that make me realize my children will constantly amaze me. The whole process of watching a child grow mentally and physically fascinates me. I am perpetually wowed by what Mini-Me says and does and I know it won't be long before both he and 'The Wubster', our 9-month-old son, are providing endless fodder for my stories.
In fact, I was SO amazed by something Mini-Me did a few days ago that I HAD to send a picture via text message. It was major. It was noteworthy. It was impressive. It was shocking. It was disgusting...absolutely disgusting. And I HAD to take a picture and send it to someone special...someone who'd really appreciate what he had created.
Before I go any further, though, there's something you must understand. I've suffered through life with an absolutely, traumatically, over-exaggeratingly horrible gag reflex. Horrible. Did I mention it's horrible? So horrible that I loathe trips to the dentist. Not because of drills or overzealous flossers, but because I hate when they demand to take x-rays of my teeth and they shove those ridiculous little film contraptions into my mouth and force me to bite down for what seems like an ungodly eternity! My eyes water and I become 'that crying guy' dental hygienists laugh about at their annual conventions. My tongue, disturbed by its new plastic bedfellow, dances, awkwardly trying to get comfortable, trying to spoon, trying to figure out where to put its 'arm'. I wiggle my feet because someone once told me that would help and, while it never has, I continue to try every single time. So there I sit, tears rolling, tongue dancing, toes wiggling...gagging.
I hate gagging.
As a pet owner in the years prior to fatherhood I suffered through further trauma each time one of our lovely fur balls decided to leave us a fetid present on the floor. The first few times I attempted to clean a mess and began gagging, my steely-stomached wife stepped in and rescued me while I stumbled away and attempted to recover. No matter what anyone says, I've never used my gag reflex to get out of cleaning up a mess...never.
Seriously.
Before Mini-Me was born I remember getting an email with a video of dads attempting to change their newborns' diapers using various ingenious, though ultimately flawed, methods. My wife and extended family got some good laughs at my expense as they debated what methods I would try. I couldn't argue with them, though. My brain was working on ways to improve upon those fathers' failures. I knew I was going to have to put myself in gag-prone situations. I knew my wife wouldn't let me off the hook as easily as she did with the pets.
So I became a dad. A dad with a gag reflex who no longer had any excuses. Disgusting scenarios are unavoidable aspects of life these days. Grossness lurks around every corner. Repulsion seeps out of many a diaper. Over the past 2.9 years I've found myself acting against my gag reflex's better judgment WAY too often. Becoming a father has brought me face to face to hand to arm with projectile vomit, snot, half chewed food items that are simply 'yucky', and far too many what-the-heck-is-thats to count. I've caught puke in my hands to protect the carpet. I've rushed to dangle my son over a trash can so he could ralph in the middle of the night. I've wiped snot with my bare hands when it threatened to conquer my son's face. And I've confronted poop fragrant enough to threaten life as we know it in Texas...and you don't mess with Texas. I've even gotten it on my hands once or twice. In all those memorable moments I've done everything...except gag. I'm not saying it's gone completely, but being a father has certainly cured me to an extent.
And that's where I left you earlier...absolutely amazed, but certainly not gagging, while staring at poop.
"My butt hurt when I pooped, mommy."
"Well, you probably need to...oh my! I see why."
"What do you mean? Is he okay?"
"Take a look..."
"I'd rather not, but...Oh my GOD! Buddy! It's bigger than you!"
It was bigger than him. It was glorious. Having written that I realize I disgust myself, but in that moment, beaming with pride at my son's accomplishment, I knew we needed photographic evidence. In fact I was positive that evidence needed to be sent along to an unnamed family member who's long boasted of the world's longest poops. I know it's repulsive, but you have to understand the family I married into: three sister's whose step-father was first introduced to them in the middle of a burping and farting contest. That knowledge rocked my world and shattered every 'that's-what-little-girls-are-made-of' dream I ever had. It put me to shame...really it did. And, so, I knew that there was one person in the world who would truly appreciate what my son had done as much as I did...and she received a picture via text message.
Seriously.
I think she gagged.
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