Family Matters, Week of 6-11-06

Every Wednesday I write about my family. Welcome to it.

Since this is, by far, my highest-rated post of the week, I’ll try to make it a good one.

Annie (4yr old Princess)

Annie is officially inundated with princess stuff. We’re talking toys, books, songs, DVDs, dresses, furniture, games, night lights, the works. The girl couldn’t get any more princess if she tried.

The other day Ericka took her to the pool and Annie made a new friend (as usual, the little social butterfly). A little boy named Austin. At some point the boy must’ve told her about Doc Oc from Spider-Man, because she kept interrupting me during last night’s story.

You see, every night I’m with the girls I read them a Princess Annie story. And in it are a cast of characters. Last night I introduced Otto the Octopus.

“And he’s got big arms!” Annie says.

“That’s right.”

“And he can squeeze you…”

“Uh huh.”

“…until you die.”

“Uh…no. Otto the Octopus doesn’t hurt anybody.”

“But he squeezes you! Until you die!”

“Annie, nobody is going to die. The octopus isn’t hurting anybody.”

“That’s not true.”

“Annie, I’m your daddy, and I’m telling you nobody is going to die from the octopus. Now can I finish the story?”

After a few more attempts at telling me the raw viciousness of the new octopus character, I finally get the story out—Nemo and Dory’s aquarium in the Big Pink Castle was running low and they had to get buckets of water from the nearby river with Otto’s help—and they finally get to sleep.

I don’t know how I feel about Annie being so conscious of things that can kill other things (let alone the guilt in her watching me play the occasional game of Counter-Strike), but I guess it’s to be accepted.

Abby (2yr Old Maestro)

Abigail is the only two year old I know who uses the potty extensively but still wears a diaper. She is good at telling you when she has to pee, poop, and so on. She is completely connected to her bodily functions, and that’s a good thing.

And, because I just love her and don’t want to give her just a paragraph of space, I will now tell a very embarrassing story regarding bathroom matters:

One time, when I was 10 or so, I was next door at my friend Amy’s house. We were playing and whatnot but I felt the urge to go. And not just a little urine, but the The Big One. The problem was, however, that we were fully engrossed in whatever it was we were doing, and I didn’t want to leave. Whatever game we were playing was still in progress, and I couldn’t just leave it. That would be rude!

The earth began to move, or at least my bowels. Things were…happening.

“Um, I gotta go,” I say. A round of “awws” ring out.

I then dash for my house. Literally a few hundred feet away. But seperated by a chain link fence too tall to overcome. Around it I go, feeling more and more anxious.

The bowels are pulsing with each stride. Downwards, downwards.

It’s coming! Oh crap! I felt it inside of myself, slipping. Wow, what a horrible feeling.

I was 20 feet to the door when it happened—the bomb dropped. The tighty-whities drooped.

The turd had landed. In my shorts.

I suddenly went from mad frantic dash to extreme humiliation waddle. I could feel it down there…swaying with the movements.

The explanation, cleanup, and fallout wasn’t pretty. Questions from my mother were brushed aside as best as possible, but eventually the shameful truth came out.

Luckily, however, my friends didn’t notice the mishap and I certainly wasn’t going to inform them. And my mother kept a good secret.

Ericka (her myspace)

My wonderful wife and I are simply not doing well in the financial department. And, at this point, I’m not exactly sure what to do. I’m one of those guys who wistfully ignores everything and whom reality has a hard time catching up to.

But when reality does, Ericka is usually right there with a worried look or a painful compromise. For that I’m glad, but I’m also stressed.

The other night some asshole bill collector called and made Ericka cry. The definition of ‘heartless’ doesn’t truly cut it, but to the random asshole at Well’s Fargo Bank, I hope his callcenter time was worth it. I hope he got a lot of pleasure berating my wife to tears while she tried to make the car payment. The guy even went so far as to say Ericka owed him personally, since he owned stock in the bank.

Buncha savages in this town, I tell you.

In the meantime, the financial fingers are officially crossed.

Opportunity knocks knocks knocks open the door
Another chance gone, won't get many more