Good Times

"Wake up Daddy.  I sharted in your bed."

Good morning?

How or why, does my three year old knows the term "sharted."   Awesome, not really, gruesome, yes, awesome, no.

Let's set the scene a bit.  My wife wakes up to go to work.  If the baby gets up, which is 50% of the time, I wake up too.  If the baby doesn't wake up then, she usually will about 45 minutes later when she hears the front door closing as "Mama" leaves (about 45% of the time).  About 5% time, the glorious mornings I get to sleep in a little bit later, the baby won't wake up for another half hour or so.

There is another variable.  My three year old sometimes gets up ready to attack the day.  If so, I'll get up and get him breakfast.  But sometimes, extremely rarely, he'll wake up and just crawl into bed along side me and go back to sleep.  Which means, an extra hour or so of blissful sleep.

Considering both children and the wife are getting over small illnesses and I've had a number of restless (to put it mildly) nights attending to the kids, I need this sleep.  Been running on fumes.  Somehow, this morning, God smiled on me, or so I thought.

Nothing better than an unexpected extra hour or so of rest, and that's what happened this morning.  Usually it portends a great day.  Recipe for a good day, a well rested dad, and two well rested children.

There is a Murphy's law of parenting that needs to be mentioned.  Usually my kids sleep in on mornings I have to ferry the three year old to school.  When I need them wide awake and cooperative of course they opt to hibernate.  On the weekends Saturday, Sunday where mom and dad can sleep in, or on a Thursday (today), where all I do is take them to Grandma's and I can sleep in, they are up at six-ish, never fails.

But for some reason, on this day, they weren't up.

About five minutes before my three year old said the words I'll never get out of my head "Wake up Daddy.  I sharted in your bed," he got restless and got out of bed and went to the bathroom.

Every parent of young children is never fully asleep when the kids are up, so I listened to him put down the seat, climb up and go pee-pee.  Wow, good job on the potty training, daddy.  He's using the grown up toilet.  What an independent and responsible young man, I get full credit for raising.  I think I hear him poo too.

Then, I hear him jigger the flusher, I guess he didn't poo, usually he'd call me to come help him out.  Then I hear his little feet tap across the wooden floor back toward the bed.  Wait, is it possible he's going back to sleep.  Can this morning get any better?  The baby hasn't even woken up.

He leans up against me and then I can feel him fiddle with the covers.  Sweet.  I can allow myself to go back to sleep as soon as he settles.  Some more movement, but I think he's settling down.

Probably the very moment after I allow myself to drift back into what feels like some deliciously illicit sleep, he leans into me and says...

"Wake up Daddy.  I sharted in your bed."

Like I snorted an espresso bean, I was instantly awake.  So many "whats" immediately bang through my brain in response to that one single sentence.

In a crisis, things slow down, and your mind is capable of thinking multiple thoughts at once, as mine did:

Thought one:  "Okay, how does he know what a shart is?  Umm... Right, when he was sick last week somebody used that phrase in front of him because he soiled some underwear.  Good job, parent... yes, the very same parent who was just patting himself on the back and trying to sleep in, is  guilty for teaching a three year old the word shart."

Thought two:  "Does he know why that's a bad word, or what half of a shart is?... No, I don't think so.  Okay, got some more years or months before I have to deal with that bad word."

Thought three:  "Gross.  Did he really shart... on my bed... he's right next to me.  Ugh."

Thought four:  "Okay, maybe he used shart incorrectly and just farted."

Thought five:  "Even if he sharted it should be in his underwear.  And I should be relatively safe"

All that happened in my brain, thousands of little synapses firing at once, before I even opened my eyes.

Then, I take in the scene.  I process it all its repugnant detail, my mind still racing.

He's pant-less and bare bottomed   Why?  He must have pooped and come to get me to wipe him.  Then, when on the bed he must have sharted.  Oh, and he did indeed shart.  (At the same moment, some Daddy pride) He's so smart.  He heard the word once and used it correctly.  But.... Ugh.  Yes, he definitely sharted... on my bed.  On my sheets and in multiple places.  It's not much as far as volume goes, but that fiddling must have been him, going WTF  and scattering the contaminated clump of sheets and blanket around in disgust.  Little droplets or pellets.  (At the same moment, some Daddy guilt) Oh, poor thing I guess he's still sick.  What's worse, I recognize he's embarrassed (More daddy guilt), poor thing.  He's kind of just in shock sitting there evaluating my opinion.  Poor thing.  WAIT,  HE SHARTED ON MY BED ALL AROUND ME.  Did he shart on me?

...No, thank God.

I'll spare you the grosser details of the clean up.  The baby instantly waking up and demanding out of her crib as I'm trying to sanitize my house from top to bottom.  Trying to clean the three year old.  Trying to contain the scene.  The spot of shart that was on his sock and dabbing its way across the hall.  It was gross, more than gross.

Some days being a daddy will haunt you, and sometimes you think you've gotten a reprieve, an extra hour or so of sleep, but you are mistaken.  Because at any moment your three year old can say to you, "Wake up Daddy, I sharted on your bed."


 

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