From The Mouth of Babes...

(and other orifices)

If you are a guy full of [poo] without the gold medal...

if you get the gold medal, you are still a guy full of [poo].

-Didier Berthod

For anyone signing in thinking this is going to be a collection of stories about funny things Tristan has said...I'm really sorry.  Especially if you have a weak stomach.  I hope you didn't just eat.  I'm sure soon enough I'll sit down and recount all the amusing things my son has said to me...just not today.  These stories usually start with me hearing "My tummy hurts" or the ever ominous shout of "Ickies!!"

I have a theory when it comes to children.  Well, I have a lot of theories about a lot of things, but this one states that children are made up of approximately 90 percent snot and poop.  That's why they bounce.  One could then of course continue this theory by saying that as they age that composition slowly works its way into the region of the brain responsible for attitude and demeanor--which would explain teenagers.  Then it could go on to state that the initial years of college are an attempt to purge all that from the system so they can finally grow up and get on with life.  Some are more successful than others.  At any rate, children are 90 percent snot and poo.

I also believe that the idiosynchratic tendency of the bladder, bowels, and stomach to know the least opportune time to inform you of their need for purging (like half a mile after you passed the last rest stop on the interstate) is something those organs are born with an instinct for.  Kids don't have to learn bad times for diaper blowouts and/or puking; their bodies just know.

. . .

Tristan was just a baby.  It was the first time my dad and his family were meeting him.  All the aunts and cousins were playing pass the baby.  (I don't specify female cousins because they're all girls.  There are a lot of girls on my dad's side as Tristan was the first boy born to the family since my brother 28 years previous.  All babies since Tristan have also been girls.)  Finally Grandpa got a chance to hold Tristan.

Grandpa held Tristan up in front of him.  They gazed into each other's eyes and Tristan puked down Grandpa's tie.
 

. . .

Tristan--still a baby.  His mom and I--still together.  We were spending time with friends.  Tristan got cranky so I took him off to see if I could feed him, or change him, or rock him, or sedate him, or whatever the heck he was screaming about.  (At least once during one of those great and fantastic and totally untranslate-able infant screaming sessions I remember looking at him and saying, "What? What is it, boy?  Did Timmy fall down the well again?")

I should mention two things now.  First is that, for whatever reason, I grabbed the baby's bottle and NOT the whole diaper bag.  (In addition to the theories and beliefs previously stated, I think there's definitely a sub-line to Murphy's law that states that the further away from the diaper bag you are, the greater the guarantee that you'll need it.)  Second is that both Tristan and I were wearing white...

Can you guess what happens next?

Fountain of poo.  It came squirting out the cracks of his diaper like an old Nickelodeon gag.  My shirt, his onesie--both trash.  Thank god it had been cool enough out to warrant a coat so I had something to wear home.

. . .

Tristan and I went for a hike in the woods.  Now Tristan never poops anywhere except my house, daycare, and occasionally his mother's, and we were just going for a short hike.  So in the interest of being able to just wander and play and gambol, I left the diaper bag in the car.  Fifteen minutes into the hike I see my son crouched down on the path staring at absolutely nothing of interest.

"Tristan, are you pooping?"

"No."

 Sniff.  Sniff-sniff.

 "Let's go find the car."

. . .

Especially after this last holiday season in which my son's room was under construction and he spent a couple of weeks sharing my bed with me, it has become rather common for me to hear a door creak open in the middle of the night followed by a thunder of footsteps and the question, "Can I sleep in your bed?"

Not long ago, about three in the morning, I roll over to a little boy asking just that: Can I sleep in your bed?

"Tristan..." I pleaded.

"There are ickies on my pillow."

 Oh crap, I think and jump up.  I turn on the light in his room and sure enough there are the hotdogs and macaroni I watched go down a couple of hours ago all over his bed.  I turn to my son and sure enough there are the hotdogs and macaroni I watched go down a couple of hours ago all over him.

. . .

My favorite Friday night ever....

Tristan had hardly eaten in two days.  And he hadn't pooped.  He'd had constipation problems a lot when he was a baby so this sort of thing was not uncommon.  Finally on Friday night he ate like a pig.  Like, the whole pig.  The kid ate a ton.  So it came as no surprise to me when he started rolling on the ground complaining of a tummy ache after dinner.

I asked him if he wanted to go rock for a bit to see if that would help him feel better.  He said yeah, grabbed my hand, and walked me slowly to his room where our rocking chair is.  No sooner did we hit the threshold, then BLEGHHHH......he throws up all over the carpet and all over his PJs.

So I rushed him into the bathroom, got the tub running, and stripped him down.  I threw him in the tub to rinse off and play while I went to clean up the puke on the carpet.  His room was right outside the bathroom so I could still keep a full eye on him while getting his room cleaned because it was already starting to push past bedtime for him.  Everything was going to be okay.

That's when I heard him scream.  "ICKIES!!! Ickies! Ickies!"

I rushed into the bathroom and, sure enough, he was no longer constipated.  There was crap everywhere.  I don't know how he got it that high up on the walls; I don't want to know.

I ripped him out of the tub and hosed the chunks off under the shower.  I gave him a sponge bath and rinsed him off by holding him out under the shower again.  Then as I was putting on his new PJs, a thought occured to me....

Wasn't I just thinking to myself earlier today that I should pick up some more 409 and paper towels because I was running out?

I went and checked.  Yep.  No paper towels.  No cleaning supplies.

So it was eight o'clock on a Friday night and I was calling Tristan's mother at work (we were divorced by this point) because Grandma and Grandpa were out of town, I couldn't think of anyone else I could call, I had a sick kid, a tub full of poo......AAAAAAAAH!

Bless her heart, she agreed to go get me some bleach and Brawny.

So I went to rock my boy to sleep, and all the while I was singing "Amazing Grace" and "It's A Wonderful World" to him I just kept thinking, I still have a bathroom full of shit.

Tristan fell asleep, his mom showed up, and I spent the rest of my wild Friday evening sanitizing the lavatory.

. . .

Finally tonight, after changing my son's second dirty diaper within an hour, I said to him, "Tristan, you need to tell me when you have to poop, okay?  You need to say, 'Daddy, I have to poop'."

 He looked at me and gave me the 'I'm being serious' look.

"Daddy," he said, "I'm full of poop."

"I know, honey.  I know."

Disconnection Notice

My father did not tell me how to live.  He lived, and let me watch him do it.  

-Clarence Budington Kelland

Tristan and I went to the park today; and, as is our custom, we were loud and rambunctious.  Either he was chasing me madly about in a game of parkour-lite, or we were swinging and being silly and practicing our numbers (his French is a little rusty, his Chinese is timid, his Spanish has gusto, and English just isn't interesting enough to be bothered with at the park).  And all the while, often times almost seeming to hover nearby, there was this girl.

She was probably somewhere between 5 and 8 which is a broad guess because I'm no good at guessing anybody's age.  I don't understand how some people can come up to Tristan and I and say things like, "Oh you must have been born in July two and half years ago. You talk so well for your age!" and I'm looking at their kid thinking, Well....you're not old enough to drive but you are walking so that makes you...............a kid. 

Asides aside (for now) though, I watched this girl and her mother arrive.  The girl headed into the playground with no real direction in mind and the mom bee-lined for a park bench and pulled out her smart-phone.  Now this is a behavior I've grown accustomed to seeing from a generalized personality type one could refer to as causcastic refuse--the perpetrators of which then typically proceed to loudly and publicly swear and yell and disclose all of their current personal relationship problems while their children--seemingly oblivious--play as children do.  Today stuck out to me because the mother was middle to upper middle class, and the daughter wanted nothing more than to play with somebody to which mom seemed totally unaware.

I saw the girl watching us often.  I saw her laughing at the goofy things Tristan and I would come up with for games to play.  I saw her wearing that timid "I'd really like to ask if I could join you but I'm too afraid for one reason or another" expression that I know crosses my face often.  I saw her imitate some of the games we were playing as best she could on her own and choose to play on different parts of the park after watching Tristan and I on them.  Finally after 20 minutes I saw her go over to her mom and ask her for a push on the swings.  Mom said yes and accompanied her daughter over, pushed her a couple of times, and then was totally lost to the phone again.  One should not be able to read any degree of loneliness on the face of a child who's at the park with her parent nor see a stoic resignation to the fact that that's the way life is.

Seriously, people....  Put down the phone!  Turn off the electronics!  And look--really look--at who's in front of you.

We have become a culture so connected to the gadgets we've created to "make life better" that we've disconnected from each other to a frightening degree.  And our children are watching us.  They are learning from us.  They are learning to value things over people; manufactured schedules over natural rhythms.  Is it any wonder that so many people are seeing shrinks and/or are on medication?

It is the human condition to scream out for companionship, togetherness, for touch and talk and laughter and smiles.  It is as natural as breathing to want to share our experiences with others.  Why else would things like Facebook have become so popular?  But we must remember that the important things in life are in the here and now, are in flesh and blood standing in front of us.   Whether friends or family or strangers, these are the people we can really touch, whose lives we can influence for good or otherwise.

I know I'm not the most social person in the world.  I struggle around people (in a broad and public sense) most of the time, but I'm trying and I'm working on my issues and I'm pushing through my fears.  In part because I want to grow as a person, but in major fact because I want my son to grow up into a loving and caring person.  I want him to value people first and everything else after.  And after today I'm going to work harder to teach him to reach out and invite others in, that sharing means more fun and not less stuff.  I'm going to try to teach him that people aren't scary (in general of course) and that the simplest and seemingly most inconsequential act of friendship might be something that turns someone else's day from "This sucks." to "That was fun!".

And of course, I'm probably going to continue teaching him that vacuuming can wait, dishes can be done later, and clean laundry really isn't going anywhere.  And, after today, we're also going to work on identifying the differences between stones and scat and that one them--and ONLY ONE of them--is acceptable to pick up to show Daddy....