Dude, I just walked into the house after a nice night out with some friends and former coworkers, and I was hit with a wave of skunk. The cat ran out the door before I could stop her, but I get the feeling she was running away from Pepe Le Pew earlier tonight. Unfortunately, no one is awake to tell me if that is indeed the case. So I am sitting here engulfed in fumes. This shit always happens to me. But that's why you're here isn't it?
But the other night, the shit happened to the Dog. Well... only because I called him to the rescue.
Nate and I got home after a super fun playdate with my friend V and her son Matteo. We hit the Ikea and no one had a meltdown. I even got a bit of shopping done: table and chairs for Puppy, little stool for Puppy, cutlery for Puppy, you see where this is going. Don't worry, I did some damage for myself at H&M on Sunday and I'm still giddy. I plan to get the excited butterflies over my new clothes until the Mastercard bill arrives. New clothes are the married woman's early crush. Everytime I open my closet it's like, "Oh. Hee hee. You're still there! (pause) Are you really mine? Gosh, we look good together." You walk around all floaty and confident (ooh -- also must give thanx to the Spanx!). That's some good shit.
But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, fabulous playdate. Puppy fell asleep in the car and I managed a smooth transition indoors for a nap in the pack n' play at V's house. Hey, I'm getting better at this! Kids wake up and play together. So cute. V and I shoot the shit in the comfort of her responsibly (read: not too cool and energy sucking) air-conditioned home. GTs.
Go to supermarket on the way home and make out with child (see post below if you need context). We get home at roughly the same time as Daddy Dog, eat a nice dinner and then I go to fill the tub for bathtime. We are sweltering by this point (it was almost 50 C in Toronto that day with the humidity -- like 120 F). I decide to get into the bath with Puppy to cool off. The Dog offers to clean the dinner dishes. LOVE it!
We are playing with some wicked dollar store booty and splashing about when Puppy makes "the face" -- THIS FACE!!! What to do? What to do?
"Dooooooog!" I cried out desperately -- using his real name of course. "Can you come up here? We have a problem!"
"Be up in a bit," he replied casually. Puppy made the face again. I heard something bubble in the water.
"NO! I NEED YOU RIGHT NOW!"
The Dog arrived and I stared at him while standing half in the tub and half out. "Puppy took a shit in the tub."
"No he didn't. Where?" We push bubbles aside behind him to see the offender. I may as well have said he had WMDs.
"There's nothing there. He just farted. And you called me up here for that?"
"But he made the face," I offered meekly. "I swear something came out his ass. Isn't that crapnel?"
"That was there already. Stop it." By this point, Puppy was also standing in the tub, looking confused at the commotion.
"Well, he made the face, so if he didn't poo, he's gonna," I warned, "So we should get him out of the tub---oh fuck. There's the face again."
The Dog contorted his face in horror. "It's coming out! What should I do?"
But there was no time to strategize. It was too late for that. We'd spent too much time discussing and not nearly enough time acting. So the Dog did the only thing he could do: he extended his hand and caught it.
The look on my husband's face after catching his son's massive log was one that will be burned into my retinas for a long time. It was a combination of disgust, bemusement and pride. Pride in himself for being brave enough to act in our time of need, and in his son for being so wee and yet birthing such a huge poo. The Dog promptly flipped the stool sample into the toilet and flushed it away. Puppy responded with a wave farewell and a "Bye bye poo poo."
After I picked my jaw up off the floor and helped my man clean out the tub and diaper the child, I looked at him with new eyes. "I can't believe you did that!"
"I know," he said, "I took one for the team tonight."
Go team go.