One Dollar Donation

Hanging out with a todder is like playing a never-ending game of Balderdash, except that you never get a turn. Bub simply comes up with all the nonsense and leaves me to guess at the definitions. Example:

Bub: (in the middle of lunch) Boo-hoo, why doesn’t anybody listen to me?

Me: Ohhhh, are you quoting Reginald von Hooby Dooby from Mo Willems Edwina the Dinosaur Who Was Extinct?

Bub: Yessss.

Sometimes they come easy. Sometimes they take longer to decipher, which makes for lively conversations and Freud-worthy word associations, as last night. I’m changing his diaper, he’s not being super-cooperative, and I’m a little too tired to sing my “Stop Squeezing Your Cheeks, Kid” ditty.

Me: Come on, Bub, just let me in there, please.

Bub: Ehhhhhh. No wipe, no wipe!

Me: I’ll be gentle, let’s just get this over with.

Bub: No wipe, no wipe!

Me: Dude, I don’t want you to itch all night. Let’s bust this out real quick.

Bub: One dollar donation.

Me: Excuse me?

Bub: One dollar donation, Daddy.

Me: I heard you, I just don’t have any cash…

Bub: Please!

Me: Well, technically, a donation is optional, Bub. I don’t have to…

Bub: ONE DOLLAR DONATION, DADDY!!!

Me: Ohhhhh. Wait, are you thinking about story time? And the suggested one dollar donation?

Bub: Yessssss.

[wipe wipe wipey wipe wipe] Me: Yeah, did Mommy give you a dollar for Ms. Linda?

Bub: Yes.

Me: Wow, nice work, Bub. Money well spent.

Bub: Yes.

The Origin of Ideas

I'll play you for naptime, Daddy. Boomshockalocka! One nothing.

You ever witness that moment, usually with kids (though it still happens to me quite frequently), where you actually see them think that thought that HAS NEVER BEEN THOUGHT BEFORE. Like holy shit, why has no one else tried this? I’m gonna patent this so hard. I’ll be rich. A rich genius. I shall answer to no one!

Then the walls come crashing down.

My memory is terrible, but when I was maybe eight, I walked with some newfangled allowance down to the corner Speedway to get one of their awesome Orange Julius clones. I chugged half of it by the time I got home, started to get disproportionately sad it was almost gone. Then I got this IDEA THAT HAD NEVER BEEN THOUGHT IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND.

Well, this is just water and orange stuff, right? So if I just fill this up with water, I’ll have THAT MUCH MORE beverage! And I can drink that down, fill it up again and again. It’s like a bottomless goblet of joy. How has nobody thought of this? Idiots! I’m so smart. Holy shit, I can do the same thing with Hawaiian Punch! You soda companies never saw me coming. You’re selling 12 packs, but I’m going for the one continuous, eternity pack.

Then I took a drink. It tasted like sucking on an orange Dum Dum stick five minutes after the sucker is gone. Not good. It was so damn watery. Is it possible I erred in my calculations? It was so scientific, so simple. WHAT AM I MISSING?

I still am open to theories, by the way, if anyone can help. Some things, like satellites, though, just cannot be explained.

Fast forward to the other day. It’s naptime. Happens every day at the same time, give or take 20 minutes. Bub starts moaning, like time-out moaning, about not wanting to take a nap. He won’t get into his “big boy bed.” I immediately threaten to strip it of that title, he seems unfazed. Real chess match we got going here.

He doesn’t want to pick his routine one book to read. I tell him fine, we don’t have to read a book, but we still have to take a nap. We’ll pick it up there…

Bub: No! No take nap! No take nap No take nap!

Me: Bub, it’s not too late for a time out.

Bub: No, no time out!

Me: Okay, then let’s take a nap.

Bub: Nooooooooo! No take nap!

Me: Well, do you want a time out then?

[Enter: the THOUGHT NEVER EVER CONCEIVED IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND]

Bub: (in his best John Bender voice) YES. Want time out.

Me: What? Wait, no, you’re just saying you want a time out so that you don’t have to take a nap.

Bub: Yes.

Me: Well, no, then you don’t get a time out. That goes against the whole psychology of it. Don’t try to manipulate me, man.

Bub: Yes.

Me: No, get in bed. It’s naptime.

Bub: Noooooooo! No take a nap! No take a nap!

In the end, he got his time out. He earned it. And he really did need it. Afterwards, he got right into bed, totally Kool and the Gang. What's up, Daddy? Why do you look upset? (Yawn) He was asleep in five minutes. Being brilliant is pretty hard work.

Meteorologist Bub

I think Bub has all the requisite skills to be the next Brick Tamlin. He’s observant, polite and he loves the Weather Channel. This was from a mere glance out the window:

Bub: Ooh, it’s cold outside.

Me: Sure is. What do you see?

Bub: It’s snowing!

Me: Oh, it’s snowing?

Bub: It’s raining!

Me: Well, it raining or snowing?

Bub: Yes.

Me: Unusual for this time of year.

Bub: Yes.

Me: What do you think the temperature is?

Bub: Fifty! (it’s 12)

Me: Wow, fifty, huh? Is it sunny?

Bub: The sun is awake. (it’s overcast as shit)

Me: Anything else?

Bub: It’s getting dark.

Me: Man, time flies.

Bub: Yes. (Yawn) I’m tired.

Me: Well, meteorology is pretty hard work. Can you tell us what tomorrow looks like?

Bub: Yes. (Pause) Hrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Pooping!

Me: Well, it can’t be 50 and raining and snowing and sunny every day…

That Rug Really Tied the Room Together

This is a private residence, man.

Yesterday, like so many, was a long day. By the end of it, I was about to lose my shit. But in a good way. A giggly way. I don’t know if Bub was actually that funny, or if I was just that tired. You be the judge.

We were getting ready for bathtime. Pretty simple routine. He undresses himself now, I take off his diaper, clean him up and we go in and hit the bath. Simple, right? Well, maybe there’s a gas leak, maybe it’s cabin fever, maybe he had too much strawberry yogurt, but he was in rare form.

He took off his pantalones (that’s Spanish for pants), then stood up and worked one arm ouf of his Mickey Mouse shirt.

“I’ve got one arm!”

“Great, Bub. So does the drummer from Def Leppard. How about that other one?”

“Ohhhhhh, I’ve got two arms! Yes!” Like he was the first human being to physically sprout a second arm. Think of all the new stuff I can do!

He then proceeded to pull the shirt over his head, swing it around like a lasso at a dwarven rodeo.

“Woohoo!” he yelled.

And I’m just trying to figure out where he possibly got this cowboy giddyup. Did he watch Magic Mike while I was napping? Then he threw his shirt on the floor with an encore “Woohoo!”

“Mmm, okay,” I said. Don’t want to encourage with laughter. “Let’s change that diaper.”

He reached down and grabbed his sagging diaper like Bob Barker’s ballsack and started kneading it like pretzel dough.

“Ohhhh, I gotta FULL diaper!”

Awesome. So he finally laid down, I removed the soiled garment and then he gave me the look. I’d seen this look before, but my fatigued brain didn’t place it immediately. Then it clicked.

“Don’t,” I said. But it was too late. A perfectly golden rainbow cascaded over his thigh, onto the carpet.

“No, no, stop,” I said. And God bless him, he did kind of stop for a second, or at least slowed the stream, eyes wide open. Then I was half-worried about him damaging his urethra or something. I made a gesture similar to the one my wife gives me during sexy time: well, you’ve already started, just get it over with. And I’ll try not to laugh.

He finished after a few seconds, looked me right in the eyes and in complete earnesty, said:

“Thank you, Daddy.” And I started laughing. Oh, well, Rugs are just giant towels anyway, right?

I Dream of Diaper Genie

Hello, poop? Poop, where aaaaaare you?

Poop is a regular topic of discussion around here. Though I use the term discussion loosely, we just can’t avoid it. It generally looks something like this, gathered around the dinner table:

Me: Bub, tell Mommy what we did today.

Bub: Um, go playground.

Me: Today?

Bub: Yes.

Me: No, that’s just not true, Bub. Only Daddy lies to Mommy, please.

Bub: Pooping.

Me: Excuse me?

Bub: Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Pooooooopiiiiiinng!!! Hrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaa. Hrrrr. Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Me: Oh, are you pooping?

Bub: YES! I’m pooping.

Me: You know, Bub, you don’t HAVE to tell us every time you poop. Especially at the dinner table.

Bub: Hrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaayiiiii. Okay, Daddy. Hrrrrrrrrrr. Hrrrrr. Oooooooohhhhhhh. Hrrrrrrrrr. Oh, hi, yogurt!”

This happens, on average, 82 times a day. In the middle of Target, a bath or a friendly game of Yahtzee. He’s an equal-situational pooper. Alone, with company, doesn’t matter. Most times he’s not actually pooping; it’s all grunt and circumstance. Though it certainly appears to be rather unpleasant, I think he actually enjoys the process. The kid actually has pooping fantasies. I couldn’t possibly make this up.

Just yesterday I walked past his room during naptime. He was talking to himself and his animals, totally normal. However, the topic did catch my attention:

“Poooooooping! I’m poooping. Oh, blue bear pooping? Nooooo. New monkey pooping? Noooo. Mommy no pooping, Daddy no pooping. Bub pooping! (pause) Super bankie!!!*”

*It is unclear as to whether Super Bankie was indeed pooping. However, I can confirm that Bub fed him several Legos and just prior to naptime.