Shotgun Daddy: 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.