By austininva
Once upon a time, I went to work. I do this most days—it’s a thing. Well, the funny thing about this day in particular was that it began with me being late for work. Okay, that’s not all that bad. I mean, we’re all late at some point.
No, the most interesting thing about this day was that on the drive home from the hangar, my wife called. I, being the caring husband I am, answered—and the day got crappy.
I should have known something was amiss when all I heard was uncontrollable sobbing through the handset of the phone. I pressed for answers—was everything okay?
Crying, with the word “everywhere” understandable.
I asked again: “What?”
Crying, with the word “Logan” understandable.
I was worried. Logan is everywhere? Did he pull the TV on him?
Crying, with the word “No, it’s everywhere.”
I only have a 10-minute drive to work, so I was pulling into the driveway at this time. I rushed inside, and Jo was at the door waiting, tears in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I asked again.
She pulled herself together for one last attempt at communication.
“Logan pooped. It’s everywhere.”
I was relieved. Obviously my son had a bad diaper, and my wife had a long day. I know the two don’t mix well—she was just in hysterics.
I said, “I’ll clean him up. Take a break.”
I went upstairs to clean my son off and change his clothes. My world was about to change—and not in a good way, like I just bought a new car or I won twenty bucks on a scratcher.
More like… I ran over my dog while late for work, and then got a flat tire on the highway, and when changing the tire got splashed by disgusting puddle water, and then little raptors rained from the sky to eat little bits of my flesh over the next three days kind of bad.
The first thing that hit me was the smell. It was a bad one. I was reminded of camp—when it got hot and the wind didn’t blow in the latrine. But this was Virginia summer, so it’s humid, which makes smell 1,000% stronger and adds the effect of taste.
I walked into Logan’s room, and there he stood—a pillar of all that is baby. He turned to look at me, cheered, and pointed to his handiwork.
On the wall, the toy chest, the bed, the chair, the bookcase, the books, the Duplos, the pushcart, the stuffed animals, the nightlight, the mattress, the carpet, the door, the trim work, the window, the drapes, the closet, the hanging clothes, the shoes, the dresser, his hands, his face, his one sock—and his body.
In his other hand was a diaper. His palette.
And the good news is—it was almost the cleanest thing in his room.
I walked in carefully, as if navigating a minefield, to survey the damage…
Then I looked up and saw my two-year-old had somehow painted on the ceiling. I was both shocked and impressed, all at the same time.
After the damage to my soul had been accomplished, I pulled out some cleaning supplies, and we began to clean. We cleaned for a long time—a very long time.
After we cleaned and had a long talk about why we don’t draw on the walls, we went downstairs for dinner.
While our family ate in silence, I thought about the artistic talent my son possessed.
Then I remembered the drawings on the wall.
They were pretty poopy.
Have a great day!
— austininva
