Shotgun Daddy

Look Ma, I'm Famous!

If the hallways seem a bit crowded today, maybe it's because of the new readers stopping by, directed by Jay Allen of BloggingBaby.com. If you're one of the new folks checking in, sit down, grab a cup of coffee, and take a look around. Also, thanks to Tom Nugent who made a mention in his blog, Not in Kansas Anymore. Imagine, all this attention for a little story about a three-year-old crapping his SpongeBobs.

I've never been so happy to wipe someone else's ass...

If you're queasy, or in the middle of breakfast, don't read this post. Come back another time when I'll be writing about flying kites or riding ponies. This one isn't for the faint of heart. Proceed at your own risk.

About three weeks ago Henry shed his diapers and started using the toilet. (Alright, it wasn't as easy as it sounds -- it took three or four days, a few pounds of stress, and several cups of patience.)

Anyway, the good news (what we told friends) was that he was potty trained. The bad news (what we told only a select few) was that he really wasn't. Sure, he happily told us whenever he had to go pee-pee, but there was a dark secret that was rarely spoken outside of our house. Henry was only half way potty trained. In fact, more than two weeks after ditching the diapers, he still hadn't successfully crapped while sitting on the toilet.

There were two problems with this. First, Henry starts nursery school on September 7th, and we were fairly certain that his teachers wouldn't be too excited if he decided to make a "special delivery" during class. Second -- and of much greater concern to me -- was that for the past 15 to 20 days, Henry was still taking craps -- big, dirty, smelly craps -- right in his underwear.

To his credit, I think, he never tried to hide this. Usually he'd be playing outside or in his room, and then he'd come bouncing into the family room and announce, "Poo-poo, Daddy!" For just a second, every single time, a tiny little match would strike a flame of hope somewhere inside my heart and I'd hope that he was actually saying, "I have to go poo-poo, Daddy!" So I'd say, "Poo-poo??" and hope that this might be the day.

But then I'd gently pat his backside and feel a baseball-sized rock hiding in his pants, and the next fifteen minutes of my life would suddenly be laid out before me, like it or not. Non-parents sometimes cringe at the idea of changing a diaper. Child's play. I'd happily change a diaper in the middle of the dinner table, wiping with one hand while eating popcorn with the other. Some things, you can become immune to.

Dealing with a three-year-old's dirty underwear, however, is completely different. You can't just throw the SpongeBob underwear away, especially when you've spent the past month hyping up the SpongeBob underwear as being incredibly cool.

So you develop a system. First, you slowly take the underwear off of the giggling child, doing your best not to let the inconveniently baseball-shaped rock roll onto the floor. (You know should keep all fecal matter off of the floor, but you also know that this is impossible. You will always get fecal matter on the floor.)

Next, you flush the toilet. As soon as the package leaves the building, you immediately begin dipping the undies into the water, hoping like crazy that the force of the swirling water will wash away at least some of the residual crap. After the toilet stops flushing, you carefully balance the underwear on the rim of the toilet, perching it in such a way that no water will drip on the floor and only the unsoiled part of the underwear touches the toilet. Then you turn your attention to the child that you love.

For some reason your son is extremely interested in what's going on "back there." Every ten or fifteen seconds he'll ask, "Poo-poo back there, Daddy?" and start to reach around to check for himself since he doesn't always find your answers either quick enough or reliable. So as you're using baby wipe after baby wipe and putting them directly into the toilet even though you know you're not supposed to, you also have to constantly remind your still-giggling son (because what's more ticklish than having someone wipe your ass?) not to touch anything, especially not his butt. And as you're wiping with one hand and trying to keep him out of it with the other, you notice that he's rubbing his nose and scratching his cheek, and you wonder again about fecal matter.

Just as you finish wiping him, you notice that he has somehow gotten more than a little bit of crap on his foot, and there are now several little crap footprints decorating the bathroom floor. For a moment you're distracted by the fact that the pattern looks like something you might find on the floor of an Arthur Murray Dance Studio. What might the dance be called? The Fecal Dance? Poo-Poo Polka? Shit-Print Shuffle?

Back to work, you wipe up the dance steps and get back to the underwear. For the first time, your son seems a bit concerned. "Poo-poo on SpongeBob?" You clean away, scrubbing and flushing, flushing and scrubbing, all the while reminding your son that they might send him home from nursery school if he goes poo-poo in his pants like this.

With everything and everyone finally clean, you wash your hands and take the underwear (and shorts, if necessary) directly to the garage, doing your best not to touch anything because you wouldn't want to get fecal matter on, say, the doorknob. When you return you wash your hands again, then return to the bathroom with some disinfectant to clean the toilet, the dance floor, and any other surfaces that have been compromised. That done, you wash your hands for the third time. Depending upon the severity of the incident, your son gets either a bath or clean pair of underwear, and you're finally done.

All of that is hopefully behind me. This afternoon I suggested to Henry that he might want to sit on the potty and try to go poo-poo. At first he said no, but then I reminded him of the bag of licorice that would be his if he could make a drop, and his eyes lit up as he climbed on the body. "A lot of licorice, Daddy?" Yes, Henry, the whole bag. "O!K!"

After a few minutes he wanted off, but I simply upped the ante and promised a trip for ice cream. That bought me another ten minutes, but after a while I had no choice but to let him down. "It's okay, Henry. I'm proud of you for trying."

Now here comes the magic part. After lifting him off the toilet, we both looked in and saw the most beautiful little crap you've ever seen! With angels singing in the background, we both looked at each other with pride, and I told him only half-jokingly, "Henry, this is the best day of my life."

I then proceeded to wipe his ass with a smile.

Trimming the Fat

Towards the end of Seinfeld's run on NBC, some of the episodes started to slip a bit. I saw an interview with Jason Alexander (George Costanza) after the series had concluded, and he explained that there's always a point towards the end of a sitcom's life where the characters become caricatures of themselves. One particular episode that exemplifies is The Reverse Peephole.

Lots of different things happen in this one: Kramer and Newman decide to reverse the peepholes on their doors so that they can look inside their apartments from the hallway, thereby avoiding ambushes when they're coming home; Puddy wears a fur coat that Elaine hates, then later replaces it with an 8 Ball jacket that she hates even more; and Jerry somehow ends up using a European carry-all. ("It's not a purse!")

But the angle I'm thinking of has to do with George, who suddenly has an inexplicably large wallet. Jerry looks at it at one point, incredulous, and asks how he could possibly walk around with a monstrosity like that in his back pocket, and George responds, "I need everything in there!"

Which brings me to my true confession. My wallet is dangerously large. I measured it the other day, and -- no joke -- it was more than an inch thick. Unlike George, I never had any trouble folding it up, but I have to admit that there times when it could be quite a pain in the ass -- literally. And so I started to wonder, do I need everything in there?

The more I thought about it, the more I knew that it was time for a change. A few weeks ago my buddy Brent boasted about his new super-thin wallet, devoid of all excess baggage, and I was intrigued. Perhaps it was possible...

Leslie's parents had given me a billfold for my birthday in 2003, but it had been gathering dust in my closet ever since. Why not give it a shot? Inspired by Brent and afraid of becoming George (really, aren't we all afraid of that?), I took the plunge this weekend and went through my wallet, one artifact at a time, sorting everything into two piles.

Here's what had to go:
1. Membership card, Aquarium of the Pacific. I'll take it when I need it.
2. Business card, The Paper Princess. Leslie, don't hate me.
3. Two membership cards, The Huntington Library. See #1.
4. Medical insurance card. We can file it.
5. Alison's library card. We use this once or twice a month.
6. My library card. I've never used this. Not once.
7. Victoria's Secret credit card. Don't judge.
8. Hilton Honors Points & Miles card. Do I need daily access to this?
9. $50 range card. I've played golf once in the last six years.
10. Prescription drug card. I get prescriptions all the time, but I don't think I've ever needed this.
11. Two temporary membership cards, The Huntington Library. This isn't the best filing system.
12. My 2004-05 Middle School I.D. card. The new school year starts in two weeks.
13. Leslie's 2004-05 Middle School I.D. card. Aren't wedding rings enough? Do I really need to carry her I.D?
14. Vons Club card. We don't shop at Vons.
15. Membership card, LA Zoo. Expired 11/30/2004.
16. National Bone Marrow Donor Program card. I really am a good person, aren't I?
17. Barnes & Noble Educator's Discount Card. Expired 10/31/2003.
18. Borders Classroom Discount Card. Expired 10/03/1999.
19. Fortune Cookie fortune: "You are only starting on your path to success." Really?
20. Two filled Subway "Sub Club" customer appreciation cards. Our Subway no longer accepts these.
21. Unused ticket, Padres vs. Giants, 9/29/2004.
22. Four photos: Me and Leslie; Alison and Santa; 2 of Alison. No room for sentimentality.
23. American Heart Association CPR card. Recommended renewal date: March 2002.

So, there's no Irish money, but it's still a fairly ridiculous list. Now here's what made the cut and got transfered to the sleek new billfold:

1. California driver's license.
2. Debit card.
3. Credit card.
4. AAA card.

And after further review, the Paper Princess business card slipped in as well. After two days on the new wallet diet, I feel like a new man. I'm a step and half quicker, and I'm pretty sure I've added two or three inches to my vertical leap. And best of all, my ass doesn't hurt when I sit down to eat dinner, so I got that going for me, which is nice.

U Can't Touch This

One reason that I'm head over heels in love with iTunes and my iPod is because they keep data. Pointless data, but data nonetheless. As an example, I absolutely love knowing that I've listened to Elvis Costello's "Watching the Detectives" the exact number of times I've played Green Day's "Jesus of Suburbia" (twenty each). Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the numbers that I actually start feeling bad for songs that have been ignored. I think of them like the programs in Tron, wandering around my computer's circuitry, ashamed that I'm not listening to them. I'll notice a classic that's been ignored (only eight plays for The Clash's "London Calling") and the sheer injustice will lead me to fire it up.

This idiosyncrasy extends beyond music. If and when I meet my all-knowing maker, I'll have a few requests...

First, I'd like to know how much peanut butter I've eaten in my lifetime, preferably with a visual. Would it me enough to fill a phone booth? A house?

Next, I'd ask for a list, sorted by frequency, of my most common phrases. A few which would be certain to make the list would be:

Do you know where my sunglasses are?
I pledge allegiance, to the flag...
Are you gonna eat that last piece?

But I'm fairly certain of what would be at the top of the list: Don't touch.

It seems that a huge part of parenting is keeping your kids from touching things that they shouldn't, especially if you've got a boy like Henry. Henry touches more things than a blind man looking for loose change on the top of his dresser, which isn't a terrible thing, unless you consider that his hand is in his mouth or wiping his nose or rubbing his eyes roughly six hours out of every day.

I have to admit that I let things slide a lot more than Leslie does, but I get particularly freaked out in public restrooms. Henry, on the other hand, takes to them like a fish to water. In fact, if he had the choice between the indoor ballpit at McDonald's and the bathroom at Joe's Gas Station, I think he'd probably head for the can.

Everything about it appeals to him. As soon as we walk in, he'll test the acoustics, just so he knows what kind of room he's working. Regardless of how many people might be with us, he'll start yelping like a prairie dog, measuring the echo bouncing off the tiles. If it's a particularly large room with a true echo, he'll smile and yelp louder until I can herd him into a stall -- where the fun REALLY begins.

Now, at least, he focuses a little bit because he knows that we're there to actually use the facilities, but in the days before he was potty-trained and only came into public restrooms when he had to come with me as I took his sister in, it was an absolute free-for-all. We'd usually try to snag one of the handicapped stalls, which was good because we weren't all crammed together, but bad because Henry viewed it as a ceramic gymnasium. While I was preoccupied with Alison, he'd lay his hands on everything. The toilet paper. "Don't touch!" The flusher. "Don't touch!" The toilet seat. "DON'T TOUCH!"

Once when I was wiping Alison she looked over my shoulder and said, "Daddy! Look at Henry!" I turned and saw my giggling son, the boy I hoped would one day grow up to be President of these United States, squirming underneath the stall door, crawling through hours/days/weeks of god knows what, making a break for it like Clint Eastwood in Escape From Alcatraz. And so there I was, forced to choose between a daughter perched on the edge of a toilet and a son running to freedom. No mortal man should have to make that choice.

But now that he knows that there's actually an expected behavior, he's settled down a bit. In fact, he's even developed his own routine. First, he'll announce his agenda to the entire room, usually at the top of his lungs. "Me go pee-pee like Daddy?!?!" Yes, Henry. "OKAY!" He then selects a stall, never choosing the one I'd prefer, and we go in. He takes a minute to look around, paying close attention to what might be going on in the adjacent stalls. If he doesn't see any feet underneath the walls, he's a bit disappointed. He'll ask, "Where man go?" I'm fairly certain he thinks that it's always the same man using the stall next to him, no matter where we are, because when he sees a pair of shoes next door, he'll actually bend over, stick his hand underneath the stall, and say hello. Thankfully, we haven't gotten an answer yet.

Next we'll lift up the toilet seat and without fail he'll try to lean over and put both his hands directly on the lip of the toilet bowl, no matter what might be on it. "DON'T TOUCH!!!" It's enough to drive a man insane.

After we're finished, he can never seem to go straight to the sink. Invariably he'll notice a paper towel or a gum wrapper on the floor and insist on giving it to me, or, worse yet, putting it in his pocket to save for Mama. It's my guess that before I can get his hands on the soap, he's touched every square inch of the restroom and come into contact with roughly six million germs, and done it all with a smile.

It's my hope that he survives this phase without contracting the bubonic plague and does, in fact, grow up to be the President of the United States. Failing that, I'm sure he has an excellent career ahead of him as a restroom attendant. Afterall, he's certainly an expert in the area.

Quote of the Week #1

Context: We're at the doctor's office talking to the pediatric orthopedist about Henry's recent arm injury. During the doctor's examination, he asked Henry a few questions.

Doctor: Henry, can you feel it when I touch your fingers?
Henry: No response.
Doctor: Can you feel this?
Henry: No response.
Me: Henry, tell the doctor yes or no.
Henry: Yes or no.

Sticks and Stones...

Any parent will tell you that when you're raising a three-year-old, things are going to get broken. Here's a partial list of the things Henry has broken in his short but brilliant career:

• A tape measure.
• A life-sized cardboard cut-out of a mailman at the post office.
• A spinning jewelry display at Macy's.
• A three-foot carved wooden bear at my parents' house.
• At least 5 pairs of his daddy's sunglasses.
• At least 2 pairs of his mama's sunglasses.
• Countless toys.

For the most part, I don't think Henry's any more accomplished in this field than your average three-year-old, but once in a while, perhaps when he feels his true abilities aren't being appreciated, he reminds me that he is, in fact, a prodigy. Which brings us to Sunday...

Part I
Things started out as they usually do, except that he actually said "Good Morning" before demanding to eat. Later I'd look back and realize that this was all part of his strategy, just a plan to lower my defenses before he'd unleash his full arsenal. It took about five minutes.

After taking a few bites of his Rice Krispies, he said something which might have been, "Blow my nose." His mouth was full, and he was a bit whiny, so I jumped on the "teachable moment." I've only been a father for five years now, so perhaps you'll excuse my naïveté. Here's how the conversation went:

Daddy: What was that Henry?
Henry: Nooooooooo!
Daddy: You don't have to be upset. Use your words. (Yes, I really said this.)
Henry: Nooooooooo!
Daddy: Henry, I can't understand you when you talk like that.
Henry: Nooooooooo!

And to punctuate his final statement -- with an exclamation point -- he raked his arm across the table in front of him like a roulette captain sweeping chips off the board. He was cold, merciless, and unfeeling as everything in front of him -- bowl, cup, spoon -- crashed onto the floor. Take a look at the damage:

You know what they say: Don't cry over spilt milk, Rice Krispies that are stuck to the floor, and shattered bowls. We didn't cry.

Part II
Henry gave us the gift of ten relatively peaceful hours after breakfast, but later that evening, as he and his sister were playing outside on our slide (this isn't it exactly, but it's close enough to give you a picture of what we're talking about) there was a sudden scream from the backyard.

It's fairly easy to interpret the cries of your child, and this one was clearly indicating severe pain. Leslie and I both raced out to the backyard where we found Henry still on the ground, crying. Alison said that he had hit his head, but I noticed that his arm didn't seem to be hanging correctly. It was limp at his side, and he wouldn't (or couldn't) lift it up at all. He clearly needed to go to the emergency room. We took his baby doll and left...

Here's a not so quick rundown of how that went:

8:00 PM
Henry and I arrive at our local 24 hour medical center. We chose this over our city's main hospital because it's always much faster. I wasn't really interested in spending the entire night in the hospital...

8:30 PM
A nurse practitioner looks at Henry's arm and immediately identifies the problem: his elbow is terribly swollen, possibly indicating a fracture. Not unexpected. A few minutes later Henry charms an ER nurse who is quite taken with him. "He has such beautiful eyes!" Everyone I speak to throughout the night asks me what had happened, and I can't help but wonder if they are wondering something about me: did he fall, or did he "fall"?

9:00 PM
We are taken to X-ray. Up until this point, Henry has been very brave. He is definitely in a bit of pain, he is a little overwhelmed by the hospital experience as four or five different people have talked to him in three or four different rooms, but he's taking it all in quietly, saving his tears for later. The first three x-rays go fine, but for the fourth one the technician has to contort his arm into a position that causes considerable pain, and then I have to hold it there for twenty long seconds while he cries and calls out, "Maaamaaa! Maaamaaa!" But his mama isn't there...

9:30 PM
The doctor comes in and talks about what he saw in the x-ray. There is a fracture at the base of his upper arm, and he is concerned that in fractures such as this the swelling can sometimes lead to circulation problems and nerve damage. Henry will need to be observed through the night and seen by a pediatric orthopedist. Unfortunately, there is no pediatric orthopedist at this particular hospital, so he will have to be transfered. (Much more on this later.) And finally the big news: surgery is a possibility. I had brought Henry to the hospital assuming that they'd put a cast on his arm and send us on our way, and now we're talking about surgery...

9:50 PM
A new nurse applies a temporary splint to Henry's arm. She is very nice, but just as she's preparing the splint she says, "Okay, it's his right arm, right?" Uh, no, it's his left. "Oh, wow! Good thing I asked!" Nice. Anyway, the splinting goes well. I have to hold Henry's elbow at a 90° angle while she wraps it, and Henry whimpers throughout the whole process. Once she's done she gives us some more bad news. They will be transfering us to another hospital, as I already knew, but it will be a minimum of three hours before we leave -- simple bureaucracy. Nice.

10:00 PM
I call Leslie and fill her in on how things are going so far. (Click here for her side of the story.)

10:05 PM
Henry falls asleep and I put on the TV. Seinfeld. It was the one where Jerry, Kramer, and Newman go in together on an investment and then convince themselves that their broker is a coke fiend who's likely blowing their money on his habit. One of my favorites.

10:15 PM
The doctor comes in and tells me that we'll be transfered to Children's Hospital of Orange County (CHOC), which is only about twenty miles away. He tells me that an ambulance will take Henry and I can follow behind him. Yeah, that's gonna happen. I'm gonna put my three-year-old boy, who's already scared and hurting, into an ambulance and tell him that I'll see him later. So I asked the doctor if I could just drive him there myself, and he says "probably."

10:30 PM
The ER secretary comes in to talk to me. She's obviously not a nurse, but it makes for a better story if I refer to her as Nurse Ratched. So Nurse Ratched starts her campaign to completely annoy me:

Ratched: So the ambulance will be taking you to CHOC?
Daddy: I don't think so, the doctor indicated that I could drive him.
Ratched (with dripping condescension): Are you it was the doctor who told you that?
Daddy (with unhidden annoyance): Well he identified himself as a doctor. I guess I don't know if he actually is a doctor.
Ratched: Well, maybe he misunderstood you, because that's not what he said to me.
Daddy: There was no misunderstanding. I asked if I could drive my son in my car, and he said that I probably could.
Ratched: Well, I'll have to talk to him.

10:45 PM
The doctor returns and tells me that it looks like I won't be able to drive him. It turns out that CHOC has very strict protocols about patient transfers. He understands my concerns, and even apologizes for the policy of the other hospital. He then suggests that I talk to the transfer ambulance crew when they arrive.

11:00 PM
Ratched: Okay, we just need you to sign this transfer request.
Daddy: I'm not going to sign that now. I'll sign it after I talk to the ambulance crew.
Ratched (exasperated): Well, they're not going to come until you sign this.
Daddy: You mean they're not on their way already?
Ratched: No, they're not coming until you sign this.
Daddy: Well, the doctor suggested that I talk to them about this.
Ratched: What's the problem? Are you worried about the expense of the ambulance?

What I Thought: Yeah, that's right. Because I'm black, I can't afford an ambulance.
What I Said (sternly): I can afford an ambulance. I don't want to send my son alone in the ambulance, but if I ride with him, my car will still be in your parking lot, and I won't have a ride home.

Ratched: Okay, I'll mention that.

11:30 PM
The doctor comes in and apologizes and calmly explains that I should probably sign the papers so that the process can get started. I agree.

11:40 PM
I sign the transfer request. As Nurse Ratched walks away, she throws her two sense in again --

Ratched: They wouldn't come without this signed request.
Daddy: I'm very aware of that. You've said that several times now.

12:20 AM
The doctor comes in and smiles. "I've convinced them to let you drive!" I immediately hop up from my chair to thank him and shake his hand. Nurse Ratched is nowhere to be seen.

12:30 AM
Nurse Ratched brings the discharge papers and gives us the x-rays to take to CHOC. I make mental notes about the letter I plan to write to her superior. Henry and I thank the doctor on our way out.

12:40 AM
We stop off at home to get some love from Mama, a change of clothes, and some extra underwear for Henry. I grab Green Eggs and Ham for Henry and Harry Potter for me. Since we missed dinner, I give Henry some of his current favorite food: Red Vines. We climb back in the car and head for CHOC.

1:30 AM
After calling security to let us into the hospital and going through the intake process with an incredibly nice nurse and a great nurse's assistant, I'm told that surgery appears likely. This is a surprize. And just to throw another variable into the mix, Henry starts stuffing graham crackers into his mouth during the intake interview. Naturally, he throws up. I'm momentarily scared to death when I look down to see huge red chunks in his vomit. Is he throwing up blood? No, just Red Vines.

3:00 AM
Henry and I finally lie down to go to sleep. Henry's asleep in about two minutes in his bed, but I struggle a bit. They've got a chair which converts to a bed, and it would be perfect if I were 5'3". Unfortunately, I'm 6'3". No matter. As I would mention to Leslie later, I'm an excellent sleeper. I can adapt to any situation.

7:30 AM
A doctor wakes me up to talk about Henry's situation. He tells me that the x-ray doesn't exactly match what he was told on the phone a few hours earlier, and he thinks it's about 50/50 for surgery. He describes the injury as a "green stick fracture." When you try to break a young, green branch, it doesn't usually break all the way. There's usually a piece that stays intact, and young children's bones often break that way as well. The doctor says he'll consult with the surgeon, but he leaves me with the feeling that the surgery decision will likely be up to me. Since it's still a bit early to call Leslie, I put the TV on and watch the closing holes of the PGA Championship. Tiger's got an outside shot, but things don't break his way.

8:30 AM
Our roommates wake up and change the channel without asking. Not only is it rude, but their choice of shows is nauseating. No matter. I call Leslie to let her know that Henry could be having surgery, and that maybe she should try to get her mom to watch Alison and Kate so that she can come to the hospital.

10:00 AM
The surgeon arrives with excellent news -- no surgery. Also, he isn't concerned about the swelling. He asks us to set up an appointment to have a cast put on Henry on Wednesday. He expects that the cast will stay on for three weeks. He says we can go home as soon as all the paperwork is arranged.

10:30 AM
Leslie arrives, and Henry is happy as a clam. He smiles for the first time in fifteen hours...

12:00 PM
Leslie: Henry, do you want McDonald's for lunch?
Henry: No, Burger King!

1:30 PM
A little more than eighteen hours after it all began, we arrive back at home and have Henry's chosen meal for lunch. I completely disregard my recent efforts at healthy eating and devour a Double Whopper with no mayo and no guilt. It's absolutely delicious. Henry breaks nothing during the entire meal.

The Double-Edged Juice Box, or, Lightning in a Potty

Can it be possible that it's been two weeks since last we met? I haven't even been working, but the days have been full and the nights have been short. Let's hit the ground running...

They call it potty training, but what they should really call it is "Spend a solid week hoping like crazy that your toddler will somehow manage to use the toilet instead of simply letting the urine drip down his leg into a puddle on the floor, all the while hoping like crazy that the increased stress doesn't cause someone to burn the house down in frustration."

We started our journey almost two weeks ago, on my first day of vacation. When Henry woke up, I ceremoniously took off his diaper and announced that it would be the last diaper he would ever wear. He didn't seem to grasp the significance of the event, so I repeated myself: "Henry, no more diapers! You're only going to wear underwear from now on!" His response? "ME EAT! ME EAT WAFFLES!"

And so we started. Leslie had filled the house with juice boxes and salty snacks, so we dove right in immediately following breakfast. His diaper had been dry, so I knew it was only a matter of time. I mercilessly pumped him full of juice, then suggested a trip to the toilet.

"Hey Henry, let's try going potty, okay?"
"Okay, Daddy! Like a big boy!"

It was still fun at this point, so we bounced off to the bathroom, and I just knew he was gonna pee. How could he not? Leslie would wake up in a bit, and I'd casually mention our success, saying something like, "Oh, by the way, Henry's potty trained. Can I help you with anything else?"

So I sat Henry up on the potty and waited for the hissing pissing sound I knew would come. And waited. And waited. The general idea behind potty training is that since the toddler has no idea what he's doing, you have to put him on the toilet and hope to get lucky. Basically, you have to catch lightning in a potty. And so I waited some more.

After five or ten minutes Henry started to get bored, so we went back to the table and continued drinking. I sat across the table from him, going juice box for juice box, fighting the sudden urge to teach him how to bounce a quarter into a glass. I filled him with salty pretzels, salty potato chips, and salty crackers, then asked him to wash it all down with even more juice, all in the name of growing up.

"Check your pants, Henry. Are they wet or dry?"
"Dry!"
"Good boy, Henry. I like dry pants!" (What kind of nonsense is this? I like dry pants?)

Back to the bathroom. At this point I was DEFINITELY ready for a potty break, so I took the opportunity to model the expected behavior.

"See, Henry? I'm going pee-pee like a big boy! Now it's your turn!" (Why does everything end with an exclamation point?)
"My turn!"

And so I put Henry up on the toilet and waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. We read a book, we talked about underwear, we analyzed the Yankees' chances of making the playoffs. Nothing.

Back to the table. At this point Henry wasn't inhaling his juice as quickly as before, probably because his bladder was ready to explode, but I kept pushing. We'd been at this for more than an hour, and I knew our moment was coming. After one last juice box, I suggested another try on the potty, but Henry wanted to put a book away in his room first. No problem, I thought.

Can you guess?

"Uh-oh, Daddy! Pee pee, Daddy!"

I raced to his room to find him standing in a puddle roughly the size of ten juice boxes, his SpongeBob underwear soaking wet. Damn. It's like missing the bus when you're already late for work, and you know there won't be another one coming by for another hour. Or, in Henry's case, twenty minutes. Missed that one, too. Damn. You live by the juice box, you die by the juice box.

And so it went for the rest of the day -- all day. Poor Henry didn't have a single success, and it wasn't until Leslie took over the next day that any pee-pee found its way into the potty. (At that point I had spent so much time cleaning up accidents that my ego wasn't bothered a bit.)

And then about five days into the journey, Henry said the most magical words. "Pee-pee coming!" Leslie took him to the potty, and he completed his first self-initiated pee, a HUGE milestone. And just like that our boy had grown up a bit, the house was still standing, and the marriage was still intact.

But with this good news comes two pieces of bad news:
1. Henry still has issues with #2, and I can't tell you how much that sucks; and
2. We get to do it all over again with Kate in two years.

Damn.

Links, Links, Links

In general, I'd like to stay away from shorter entries like this, but there are three incredibly cool links that absolutely must share...

The first is The Paper Princess, a beautifully designed site where you can buy original stationery, hand-made bags and pouches, and everything you might need to appear artistically hip. I'm happily married to the genius behind it...

The second site is MSN's Virtual Earth. Normally I'm against all things MicroSoft, but this is too cool to be ignored. Type in your address, and you get a satellite photo. You can zoom in close enough to see which cars are parked in the driveway. There's an interesting conspiracy theory connected with this particular site. It seems that when you type in the address of Apple's corporate headquarters, you get a picture of an empty lot. As much as I'd like to think that Bill Gates is behind that somehow, the truth probably lies in the fact that some of the satellite images are pretty old. When I looked at parents' house, I could see the swimming pool that they filled in almost ten years ago...

Look at this list: the of and to a in that it is was i for on you he be with as by at have. According to WordCount.org, those are the twenty most frequently used words in the English language. The site contains a mountain of meaningless information, but that doesn't make it any less delicious. You can peruse the list sequentially, search for a particular word, or even a particular ranking. In case you're wondering, "shotgun" ranks #12,559 and "daddy" sits at #4010. Sadly, "shotgundaddy" does not appear in the database. Perhaps in the next version...