Big Ugly Man Doll

Absalon, an incense-swinger in the Miller’s Tale from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, is noted to be a man “particularly squeamish of farting.”  If you, dear reader, are particularly squeamish of farting, and worse than farting – much worse – then I beg you to skip this, and move on to the previous post, which is a good bit and has tales from Atlantic City. 

But if you’re up for truly crappy tales about the darker side of parenting, read on. 
If you’re not frightened of things that stink in the dark, read on. 
If you know the difference between shit and Shinola because you’ve stepped in both of them, read on.  For these are…

True Tales Of Doody!

Number One Son asked me last night about poop, specifically, “Daddy, what’s diarrhea?”  I told him a bit about the effects, the consistency, trying to keep things calm and professional.  “OK,” he asked, “what about explosive diarrhea?” 

To heck with calm and professional.  Nothing gets a 10-year-old boy laughing like a measured, reasonable discourse on excrement, calmly told.  “Oh, explosive diarrhea,” I said with my best Mr. Rodgers voice, “you had that once.” 

“I did?”

“Oh yes, in this very room.  This was your nursery when you were born.  I walked in here to change your diaper, alone, not knowing the danger I was faced with.  I set you on the pad, took off your diaper, and lifted your little legs in the air – unwittingly priming a weapon so lethal it’s been outlawed by most of the signatories of the Geneva Convention. 

“Just as soon as your legs were upright, your ass cut loose with the most horrific stream of toxic human sewage I have ever seen – and I saw “Jerry Springer – The Opera” on stage.  In one continuous line, like a laser made of shit, you hosed down the wall, the crib, the lamp, the window, and everything in between.  It was excrement made epic.  It was Ev. Re. Where!”

“What did you do?” he asked, gasping for breath with laughter.

“Son, I did what every young father does in those circumstances.  I froze solid, still holding your legs in midair, and yelled ‘Medic!’ as loud as I could.  Your mother came running up the stairs and asked ‘What’s the mat – OH MY GOD!’  She covered me by covering you, since we didn’t know if we were about to face another butt-barrage from your bottom.  I dove for the wipes and the hazmat suits and started cleaning up.

“And that’s what explosive diarrhea is.  Aren’t you glad you asked?”

And of course he was glad he’d asked; he hasn’t laughed that hard in a while. 

Since we’re already on the topic, it reminded me of the worst shitstorm I’ve ever seen – a tale we retell not to Number One Son but to the Human Tape Recorder.  There have been moments that linger, some that come close – like our beloved Godson as an infant, sitting perfectly still, looking for all the world like a beatific Buddha, as a circle of orange slowly spread around him in all directions on a white carpet.  He looked so damn happy, a perfect Zen moment of poo, as though he was going to enjoy those carrots just as much on their way out as he did on their way in. 

But no, not that image, nor any of my own mis-adventures, nothing can rate as high for a low point than the Epic ShitStorm. 

We had two of our best friends over, a couple our age and their young sons, a baby and a lad a few months older than the Human Tape Recorder.  Since he’s still underage, and to protect the innocent, we’ll call him The Very Busy Boy.  The grownups and babies (Number One Son was an infant) were upstairs, and the toddlers – neither the boy nor the HTR were quite 3-yrs-old yet, as I recall – were downstairs. 

“Daddy,” came the call from the depths, and both Daddies looked at each other.  “We need more wipes.”  Oh no.  This can’t be good. 

They were Big Kids Now, by gum, and just to show us how great and big they were, they had decided to change one another’s diapers. 

Oh. My. God.  There are things no human being should have to see.  My friend T and I were down there for 45 minutes in full hazmat riot gear.  I was in therapy for PTSD – post traumatic shit disorder – for months.  I still can’t have beans, or look at certain Jackson Pollack paintings, without relapsing and screaming for the wipes.  I think T lost his hair overnight.  There was poo in a part of the basement that we hadn’t even known about – we discovered a lost storage room, because they’d managed to get shit there, too.  The kids were both remanded to the tub for a solid scrubbing, since they were covered as well.  They couldn’t quite grasp why we weren’t more excited. 

The worst part was the speed at which a room covered with poo will kill a buzz.  We were working on the second bottle of wine at the time, and it was going to require at least two more just to get through the night. 

So, come now, don’t be shy.  Do you have a True Tale of Doody for us?

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