November 28: Quality Time

My wife is at choir practice.  My daughter is at dance class.  I am taking care of my son.  And by "taking care of my son," I mean washing out three pairs of pants and underwear in the toilet.  Yes, our quality time has been an exercise in potting training hell.  My son knows when he has to go to the bathroom.  He just chooses not to inform me until after he has crap running down his leg.

All my family and close friends know I have a pretty strong stomach.  I can clean up vomit.  I can go through a refrigerator and empty all the containers of four-month-old chicken breasts and moldy broccoli.  I can scrape off dishes used as ash trays and cuspidors.  However, I have a real problem with fecal matter.  I can't stand the smell.  I can't stand the sight.  And I certainly can't stand the texture.  In my time with my son tonight, I have had to deal with more shit than Ed Norton from The Honeymooners.

I tend to lose my patience with my son in these instances, simply because I am trying not to throw up.    I want him to wash out his clothes.  He refuses to do it.  I stand there and wait.  He stands there and waits.  It is a battle akin to Godzilla versus King Kong.  Or should I say King Dung.  The score currently stands at Godzilla-2, King Dung-1.  I am winning, although I don't feel like a winner.  I feel like taking a three-hour shower in scalding water when I get home.

I am sure the fun is not over yet.  When I pick up my daughter, she will probably find some reason to hate me.  I will not have the heat at the correct temperature in the car.  Or the WiFi will not be working at home.  Or my eyes will be brown.

Saint Marty is having a shitty night.

Ed Norton knows his shit