When telling the following story, recently, I was reminded of that song. No matter what, I just couldn't win.
Gross humor follows.
Picture a 3-year-old west3boy, complete with afro, baby-teeth, and elastic waistbands. At that age, I was like those long-term prisoners that can't squeeze out a drop unless someone gives'em permission to go to the restroom, first."You Can't Win"Well, on one particular occasion, I found myself having to do squeeze out more than "a drop." To be blunt, I had to pinch a loaf.
Before I could do that, though, I needed to get an adult's permission to go to the restroom. Those were the rules, as I understood them.
"Can I go to the baffroooom?!"
Try as I might, though, I could not get the grown-ups to stop talking to each other or about whatever was going on at the table and to START paying attention to me. I kept it up, though, and eventually someone responded like, "I don't care, boy! Go use the bathroom!"
The irony of adults setting up the rules just to bark at me for obeying them was not completely lost on me. Still, I barely had time to digest the unfairness of this faceless grown-up's tone. I was too busy haulin' ass.
I got in the restroom thinking, "HOLD it IN!" I lifted up the lid. "HOLD IT IN!" And, I pulled down my pants and my undies. "HOLD IT ..."
I couldn't hold it in.
Plop.
I shat on the frickin' floor.
...
Damn. Now, in my very few years on this Earth, I hadn't come across the accepted public policy when it came to accidental shits.
I looked at my crap. I looked at the bowl.
Now, clearly, these two things are supposed to interact more than they were, at that moment. The obvious answer was to bring them together in some way.
...
So, I bent over, grabbed my turd, and prepared to drop it in the bowl.
At that moment (of course), an adult opened the door (I must've been REALLY young, not to have locked it... or just in a damned big hurry) and saw my lil ass standing there with a hunka shit in my hand.
"Boy, 'the hell you doin' in here playin' wit' yo' sheeyit?!"
Damn.
Before I could explain the entire ironic sequence of events, I'm pretty sure I was gettin' my ass whupped.
Listen to your kids, folks. Please.
3 comments:
You know that is crazy, right? It's funny because I remember sitting in my house when my son was little and him asking permission to use the bathroom.
"Go boy!" Dang.
You poor baby *pouty face*
Our goal was to potty train our son before he turned 3. Soooo to have my boy announce "I GO DOOKEY!" is music to a Momma's ears.
Had you been my son, shoooot! I might've been in the bathroom with camcorder, and shouting "Go! Go! Go!". Forget that asking bit...
Just outta curiosity, (not that YOU were) but why are lil' boys intrigued with their dookey?
re: "You poor baby *pouty face*
Our goal was to potty train our son before he turned 3. Soooo to have my boy announce "I GO DOOKEY!" is music to a Momma's ears."
Awww.
re: "Had you been my son, shoooot! I might've been in the bathroom with camcorder, and shouting "Go! Go! Go!". Forget that asking bit..."
HA! That reminds me of that scene from LOOK WHO'S TALKING, TOO, when they were dancing and singing in celebration of Mikey finally "GO[ING] DOOKEY."
Too funny.
re: "Just outta curiosity, (not that YOU were) but why are lil' boys intrigued with their dookey?"
Hmm. I didn't recall that they were, but then, gross stuff is like catnip to lil boys. It's like male curiosity and fascination extends into a range of the spectrum that most women just can't (or don't wanna) access.
We were good for digging up worms and (sadly) putting them in our pockets to play with'em later. (Poor worms. I have inadvertently fugged-up my share of God's creatures, in my day.)
Hmm. I keep thinking about this dookey obsession, specifically, and can't remember any moments that qualified (either that I experienced or observed). Now I'm curious:
How DOES your lil boy's dookey obsession manifest itself? *tries to prepare self for the answer*
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