Saturday, November 17, 2012

The Snake in the Tub

If I learned one thing from the dozens of dorm room half-viewings Scarface, it was that nothing good ever happens in an empty bathtub. Nothing. Unfortunately, this story is no exception.

So, Bub’s become mildly obsessed with the drain lately. He squats down, sometimes daring to poke a finger into the unknown, sometimes trying to stem the flow with a stacking cup. But usually he just watches the water gently eddy into oblivion, really getting his money’s worth on nakey time.

“Ooh! Water gone!” Every time. With absolute disbelief.

“Yep, water’s gone, Bub,” I said this unfortunate evening. “Let’s put those cups away, what do you say?”

He started in on the task at hand. I snuck in a couple crossword answers. Yesssss. Then he started crying. Geez, Bub, come on, it’s red, then white, then…

“OH MY GOD, SNAKE!” I screamed. “Bub, don’t move. There’s a…really…slow…snake moving RIGHT below you. It’s coming this way, hold still!”

I rolled my newspaper, but this fella sure was taking his time—what is he, wounded or something? Is he crawling backwards? I don’t see a tongue. Or eyes. Bub, why are you making that face? My God, is that snake crawling out of your ass? Ohhhhhhh. Oh, no, not that. In the words of the sagely Obi-Won, this was no moon.

Now, Bub’s defecated in the tub before. Who hasn’t, though, right? It’s just so damn relaxing and warm and like a self-cleaning oven in many ways. But not when it’s empty, man. That's just so presumptuous.

Well, now what? I start fumbling around, trying to keep him calm and out of the radius of the big brown whale that just beached on Conley Island. I yell for reinforcements, but Mommy is feeding HP. Then I turn back to see Bub standing now, the very curious turd in his hand.

“Ooh…heavy,” he says.

He’s only seen a handful (ewww) of his own giftss, and they’ve all been in the (full) tub, bobbing like gator heads in the bayou.

But his levity was short-lived. He suddenly realized what millions of people all over the world have roundly accepted: that doody makes a bad toy. He started crying. And he wanted it off. So, naturally, he wiped it on his chest.

I finally snapped to, grabbed a handful of toilet paper and transferred the contraband to the toilet, then turned the hot water on full blast, cleaned his hand and chest, pumped some soap, cleaned his butt, and popped him into his towel. We looked at the big bad turd in the toilet, said a little poo-poo prayer, then flushed it out into Lake Michigan and had a Dum Dum.

It wasn’t exactly the intro to potty training I was envisioning. It was way more exciting.

No comments:

Post a Comment