My television keeps showing me events of awards and accomplishment, causing me to reflect on the state of my life. The Olympics just ended, and the Academy Awards were this evening, both offering celebrations of personal achievement and success against the odds. And I’m here to say that nothing puts a finer point on what I haven’t accomplished than getting shit on during the Oscars.
Now, I don’t mean chewed up by the Hollywood system and left unappreciated while someone stands and accepts a coveted statue.
I mean actually shit on. By a person. While trying to watch the awards.
Yup, my son and his weapons grade asshole have struck again. At the end of an especially long evening where he didn’t want to sleep and wore out my wife with crying and comforting… he left the best part for me.
In fact, I’m pretty sure that someone is slipping him some refried beans when we aren’t looking. It strikes me as biologically impossible for a person to generate different types of excrement while only consuming liquids. And I mean generate these types simultaneously, as if they were air and ground forces assembling on the same battlefield.
“You, scary tar-like substance, you go low and stick to everything. And you, thin sticky, and sandy, you go high and try to get to his ears.”
And all at once, full scale attack.
Now I hate a shitty diaper with the fire of a thousand white-hot suns. But I try to keep a stiff upper lip about it, pull out the wet-wipes, and deal. I remember someone said that since I pick up my dog’s poop, I’d find kid-crap to be no big deal. I suspect this same person believes the Hindenberg was a campfire and Haiti recently had “a bit of a scare.” They are hereby invited to come by my place about midnight and decide between the dog’s litter box and my son’s Haz-Mat test case. But, back to the point.
While sitting upright, my son managed to not only fill his diaper with one substance, but successfully send another up his lower back toward his shoulder blades. This defies all laws of physics, biology and good old fashioned gravity.
And of course, this happened after he’s changed, swaddled, and supposed to be going to sleep.
I initially believed I could remove the diaper and continue with my evening. But I didn’t know the scope of the problem. Imagine putting on a tight sweatshirt, then having someone fill the low back with chocolate syrup. Now, try pulling the sweatshirt off without getting any on you. Yeah. Good luck with that.
You’re beginning to see my dilemma. The substance in the diaper was nearly wet-wipe resistant, like it was built in a lab with new stealth-shit technology that makes it impossible to clean with traditional means. But the other offering left a trail of carnage up my son’s back and into his hair as I removed his clothing.
I could have been sponsored by Wet-wipes and it wouldn’t have helped.
So I found myself holding my son like a radioactive football while I started the bath, removed his clothes, and tolerated a truly inhuman stench.
Yet, somehow, I got him in the bath, clean, dry, redressed, and eventually asleep without covering myself or the furniture toxic waste. Where’s the award for that?
But the whole time he looked up at me like “Dad, you suck at this.” And of course I know he’s right. But as I said to him, “If you want this done right, then shit on Mom next time…”. At least then we’d both be happier.
For now though… the Oscar goes to… Well, somebody. I wanted to watch but I got embroiled in a shit-storm.
And it’s not an honor to be nominated.