A Day in the Life

Today was proof that no matter how much I say it, I'd never survive as a stay at home Dad.

This picture was taken by Angie at about 10:30 this morning, and yes, that's my little boy Trot playing in the FREAKING toilet. After turning her back for all of 2.3 seconds, he'd disappeared. She found him in our bathroom, commode full of toilet paper and one of my razors in hand, merrily swirling the mix around and around in the bowl.

Yes: the razor has been incinerated. When you have a tad of the OCD, things like this make you trash happy. Why do children, especially boys, have this bizarre fascination with the toilet? Any chance he gets, Trot is more often than not playing in the commode. He's SEEN what goes on in there: Why does he gravitate toward it?

Seriously, this is "Did Oswald act alone" territory for me: why does the filthiest room in a house attract kids like a fire fly to a bug zapper? WHY?

Following this incident, for reasons known only to her, Ang took the kids to the local Mexican restaurant for lunch: it was here that Rakes had to go to the bathroom. Not wanting to leave Trot with Ciera, Angie had Ciera take Rakes to the men's room. Upon returning to the table, Ciera informed her Mom that Rakes was going commando: no underwear. Seems like when she told him to go change out of his pj's, Rakes forgot to fortify the boys, and left the house the way he came into this world: sans boxer shorts. I've got to think that at almost 4 years old, this is NOT a postive development.

It was at this point Ang came THIS close to turning into the female version of Tito Ortz: seems like one of the other female diners turned around and said, and I quote, "You seem to be having some trouble controlling your children".

I've been married to this woman for 15 years: that chick best be counting her lucky stars she still has all her teeth. See, Trot can't or won't talk: whenever he wants something, he makes a noise that I can best describe as a Woolly Mammoth in heat: some guttural roar that can only be appreciated/despised in person. Well, it seems as if he did this, nonstop, today at lunch because, well, he was hungry. Anige politely informed this moron that it was tough with three children, to which the diva replied "Well, we don't have small children." Angie's repsonse? "I can tell."

I'm very proud of my wife for not knocking this idiot into next week: I realize it's annoying to have a braying Yak in the background while you are eating, but it's La Fiesta and the $3.99 lunch menu: you want high cuisine and a pleasant experience, go to the 4 star restaurant down the street. Otherwise, be ready for some rice and salsa to come flying your way. You don't like it, tough luck. My wife can kick your a**: sue me.

Like some deranged cherry on top of the sundae of life, this was how the day ended. Me, going to my room to change clothes and Trot at the TOP of the stairs: I swear I was only in there for a minute, tops. When I came out, he had somehow gotten down the stairs, pushed a bar stool over, and was sitting IN THE KITCHEN SINK picking up the dirty dishes and making the "KK" sound usually reserved for dirty diapers.

Other than putting them in a cage, I'm out of ideas: How do you convince a 3 year old underwear is a necessity? What do you say to a 19 month old who thinks toilets and sinks are the epitome of fun and excitement?

I'm firmly convinced I will never make it to 50 years old.

Frankly, I'm not sure it's not all bad if that happens.

Do you understand NOW why what happens with the Red Sox carries as much importance as it does?

Theo, for me: DO IT.