Our toddler, Snoopy, is on the brink of being toilet trained. To that end, we have created a culture of celebrating poop in our house. Nothing raises more cheers than a beautifully executed toilet timber. We huddle around and admire it as the executor flushes. It’s not the type of small victory I ever imagined I would celebrate as a father; but it beats the hell out of shovelling dirty trousers into the toilet.
Snoopy is bought in on the excitement wholeheartedly, and waits breathlessly as he gives last rites to last night’s dinner. Impatience has begun to encroach on his excitement, and now he doubles over to watch between his legs, attempting to catch a glimpse of the prairie dog’s head as it peeks out of his sphincter.
Today, between Olympic recaps on CBC, he paid a price for impatience: while doubled over peeking between his legs, he peed in his own face.
As a father, I know I am sending the wrong message laughing at my children when they are wailing away with the sadness of a thousand men; but sometimes it can’t be helped.