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 My Son's SonsPosted 03.05.2008 by Sickman (32)
It's always nice to wake up in ten-degree weather and several hours later bask among palm trees in eighty-degree weather. One thing that both of my kids were really looking forward to on this Florida vacation was swimming in the pool at my wife's grandmother's community. I made a deal with them: they both go poopy, they both can swim.
My daughter dropped a deuce without incident. But my son, for whatever reason, freaked out whenever I took him to the bathroom. He would have no problem peeing, but whenever I tried to encourage him to sit down and send some logs downstream, he would start panicking, saying, "No, I'm scared! I don't have to go!" Alrighty then. I can wait. Two days passed, no poopies from Joey. Despite their begging to go to the pool, I was hesitant, lest I introduce some Baby Ruth candy bars into a pool full of senior citizens. And by this time, Joey was beginning to look... um... pregnant? Still, he steadfastly refused to go, denying that he even had to. His curious dances, his groaning stomach, and his expanding waistline, however, told otherwise. Finally, that afternoon, I relented. This was getting ridiculous; besides, I was dying for a swim myself. So, with some mild trepidation, I walked them to the pool, all the while reminding Joey to let me know if he had to go. The pool was wonderful. Something about swimming in eighty-three degree weather in the first week of February is particularly satisfying to me. The kids were having a blast as well. And then, it happened. I turned my back on Joey for a few seconds to give Hailey a piggyback ride. I turned back to Joey, and he was gone! WTF? Frantically, I searched the perimeter of the pool, looking under the water as well, but seeing no sign of him. What the hell? I scanned the poolside; and after a few seconds, I saw him. Behind one of the pool chairs, he was hiding. He was squatting down with both hands holding the sides of the chair in a death grip. His chin was scrunched down into his chest and his face was beet red. It was, I realized, the poopy pose. "JOEY!" I yelled. "NOOOO!!!" My first instinct was to jump out of the pool. But I had to corral Hailey first, as leaving a five-year-old unattended in a pool was probably not going to earn me Parent Of The Year accolades. I hurried her out of the water, despite her objections, and rushed to Joey, who was already wearing an expression of great relief on his face. Well, maybe if I rushed him into the bathroom... I ran with him to the pool restroom and got him into one of the stalls. For a split second I hesitated before taking his bathing suit off, perhaps in quick prayer that there would be no foulness to greet me. My prayers, however, were horribly and tragically unanswered. To my horror, I pulled his trunks down and was greeted with six brown turdlets, bouncing to and fro like a set of Crazy Balls. One of the balls rolled out of the stall -- just as the restroom door opened. An older gentleman, perhaps with impaired eyesight, shuffled to the urinal, and on the way inadvertently kicked the poopy ball back under the stall, where it came to rest against my bare foot. With a sigh of personal resignation, I cleaned up the Crazy Balls. Even at this point, Joey still refused to sit on the toilet, although by now there was little point. Later on I discovered that my sweet, innocent daughter had told Joey before we left that in Florida, alligators liked to come up from the toilets and bite little boys' pee-pees. No wonder the poor kid was so traumatized by the potty. I returned back to the house and informed my wife -- who had not come to the pool as she was dealing with some, er, plumbing issues -- that our son was the proud father of a litter of Crazy Balls. She laughed. I didn't. Post new comment
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