For Those of You Who Are Following Along at Home

Ruthie is due a week from today.

Me and Sam in the Bathroom

My sister hannaH and her husband Dale have this two-year-old son named Sam -- first grandchild in our family and brighter and more amusing than any of us had any right to expect. Sam and I have a good time when we’re together, though he disapproves of the way I play. He’s pretty literal about most of what he does. Dump trucks dump, helicopters fly, etc., so it bothers him to a greater degree than you’d think it might when I take one of his trucks and put it to my ear and answer it like a telephone.

“Hello,” I’ll say. “Hello? Sam, it’s for you.”

And I get this look from him that’s closer to concern than mere disapproval. It’s the look that I imagine hannaH might give him if he put his underpants in his mouth or licked the dog. He’ll shake his head at me and say, “No no, Ben,” and again it’s easy to imagine that tone of voice coming from my sister. And it’s not that he’s scolding me as much as he’s looking out for me -- you just can’t go around answering helicopters -- unless I press it.

Some of you are aware that I’ve a tendency to beat something funny into the ground until someone wants to kill me. (Some of you have experienced this firsthand and have forgiven me; no doubt the rest of you will have that opportunity at some point.) So I continue to answer things when all Sam wants to do is play like you’re supposed to.

Pick up the baseball. Put it to my ear.

“Hello? Well how do you do sir? Very well thank you, and you?”

And I get The Look.

“Oh…can’t complain. How’s the missus?”

And in a matter of seconds it’s, “ No no, Ben.”

And if he hasn’t had his nap, or if I’ve pressed it for too long, he’ll snatch the offending non-telephone from my hand. Now he’s put out with me. I have, as we say in my family, Gone Too Far, but all it takes to put things right is my dropping it, (Sam forgives more quickly and completely than most of the people I know,) and we’re cool again. Back to trains on tracks and Kings in Castles and no, the dragon is not ringing.

So we were all together at my folks’ house not long ago. Sam was on my lap and we were driving cars on a couple large oak blocks leftover from when my mom had her kitchen remodeled. They’d crash into each other and pull each other from the brink of the abyss between my knees. He pointed out the lights on the front of one of his cars and I made the mistake of mentioning that they, along with the grille, looked like a face.

“No, they’re lights.”

Couldn’t resist. “That doesn’t look like a face to you?”

“They’re lights.”

“No kidding? Not even a little bit? See the mouth? And these are the eyes.”

Sam was having none of it.

“They’re lights.”

“Suit yourself.”

And damned if that car didn’t pick that exact moment to ring.

“Hello? Sam, it‘s for you.”

Well, he was already a little off-center about the face/grille-of-a-car debate, which left him with absolutely no patience for the phone game. I let it go.

In a second he was off my lap and standing on the floor facing me, clutching at his bottom saying, “Go to the bathroom.”

This isn’t something I’m used to dealing with, (yeah, I know it’s coming,) and I must’ve given hannaH a lost look because she came and grabbed Sam and whisked him off to the bathroom. He’s definitely rounded third in his journey toward full blown Potty Trained Independence, but he’s not quite there yet, (neither am I for that matter,) so it was time for Action. hannaH got him into the bathroom, but Sam made it clear that he wanted me to help him with his business.

Though this is something I’d never done, at hannaH’s urging I made my way to the bathroom and prepared to help a two-year-old take a dump, whatever that ended up meaning. Sam has a little plastic step-stool that he uses to climb up onto the toilet and when I arrived and stuck my head into the bathroom he had it in his hands and was looking toward the doorway waiting for me. He looked me in the eyes with a look more grave than I thought a kid that young capable of. A look that said, we play around a lot you and I, and I like you, but this is weighty business and if you’re going to be here for this, for me, you’ve got to take it for the serious matter that it is. No screwing around -- this has to go well. That’s what his look said. His mouth, as he lifted his little stool up for emphasis, said,

“This is not a phone.”

“Deal.”

So there we were, Sam and I. He with his step-stool in hand and that look in his eyes, I with no idea what came next.

The little fella set the step-stool down, climbed up onto it and stood facing the toilet, awaiting my help. hannaH, who was standing in the doorway, realized that I had not a clue what to do, gave me a some guidance and soon we were on our way. Down came the britches and now here’s this two year old who needs to go and he’s turned around and is facing me with his little doodle sticking out and he’s wondering what’s taking this guy so long.

“Get him up there,” hannaH says.

I look at Sam’s bottom and at the toilet seat, which has morphed in to a gaping maw ready to swallow the kid whole.

“He’ll fall in,” I say to my sister, and mean it. I’m panicking.

And at this moment, hannaH must be loving life. My kid sister having to show her smart-ass, older brother how to sit a two-year-old on the toilet. All those years of sibling condescension reversed in the time it takes to wedge this bare-bottomed little boy in the crook at the front of the seat. She grins at me, and her amusement is married to a satisfaction that it’s impossible to miss and unnecessary to comment on.

“I’m gonna leave you boys to it,” she says, and now it’s official. “You boys,” implying unmistakably that Sam and I are very much in the same Clueless But Beginning to Catch On boat. This is acceptable for Sam -- he’s the actual two-year-old here. I on the other hand am thirty-two and have spent most of my life with a smug look on my face; a look which, at that moment, I believe the world has seen the last of.

I squat in front of him like Lance Parrish and say, “Alright buddy, get after it.”

He just stares at me.

“I’m done.”

“Did you go?” Maybe I missed it.

“Yes.” I stand and peek into the wide space between Sam’s butt and the back of the toilet seat and see nothing floating or sinking and can’t believe what’s happening.

“No you didn’t.”

He pees.

“Done.”

“I thought you had to take a crap,” I remind him, and catch myself wondering if “crap” is acceptable nomenclature in my sister’s house. I expect to be corrected for saying it, expect to hear her from the other room -- “No no, Benny.” But she says nothing, which tells me that either we’re okay or she’s too amused by the whole scene to care. Either way.

“Come on dude,” I say. “Pound one out for me.”

I’m begging someone to take a crap and I’m watching intently. This is surreal.

Sam’s beginning to be upset now. Whatever moved him to request a trip to the bathroom has apparently passed, or at least outlived his attention span, and he wants off.

“Let’s have a poopy.” I’m trying to sound excited now, and say it the way I might say, “Let’s go for ice cream,” but he’s not stupid, and now it’s getting desperate.

“No thanks.” This is Sam’s two-year old version of a pleading, “Please.” It’s a phrase he uses frequently to beg out of something he doesn’t want to do, and the more dire the situation becomes the more pronounced the cry in his voice becomes when he says it.

“No thanks,” and he is almost in tears. He doesn’t want this at all and I am confounded. I stick my head outside the door into the living room where my sister is blithely talking with my wife and my mother, oblivious to the drama being played out in the bathroom.

“He says he doesn’t have to go,” I tell her.

“He has to go.”

“He says he doesn’t.”

“He stopped playing, grabbed his bottom and told you he had to go. He’s learning; he can sit there.”

Back to the bathroom where nothing has changed.

“Did you go?” I ask him with no real hope.

“Yes.”

I look again and find that he has not.

“No you didn’t. Come on dude. Your madre says you’re gonna sit on the commode until you’ve gone,” and now I’m the one whining.

He gives me a perplexed look, and says, “Commode?”

“Commode” is a word that Aunt Marji used when we were kids and it hadn’t occurred to me that I haven’t heard anyone but myself use it since then.

“Yeah, that’s the commode.” I nod toward the toilet.

Sam points to the porcelain beneath him and confirms, “Commode?”

“Commode.”

And there‘s a wonder in his eyes that reminds me exactly what‘s going on here. A two-year-old, still new to the world around him, whose vocabulary must still be doubling every few days, learning to take a dump.

Now we both hear the front door open and my dad has come home. Sam’s “Papa,” and without question or competition his favorite person in the world. I stand and hug him, (the bathroom is right by the front door,) but Sam is anchored to the toilet and can’t. It makes him crazy.

“Papa! Papa! Papa!”

Papa smiles at Sam perched there on his seat and says “hi“, but has never been one to hang around in the bathroom when someone else is that kind of busy, so he moves on into the living room and now Sam is distraught. His eyes plead with me. Pitiful. I want to let him off the hook but am afraid of his mother.

“Sam, you’ve got to finish.”

“NO THANKS!” and he’s calling for his Papa.

“Sam. All you have to do is pinch a loaf for me and you can go see Papa.” If this doesn’t do it, I will give up.

His jaw clenches, face turns red, left eye tears up just the least little bit. Finally he exhales, bears down one more time. Exhales again and his eyes widen toward me in an unspoken plea.

I ask, again, “Did you make some dookie?”

He tells me, again, “Yes.”

I look again, and am unimpressed, but clearly there has been some action. Not what I expected -- it looks more like some kind of farm animal has sneezed peanut butter into the bowl than what I’m used to seeing after that kind of pushing. I don’t know what to do. Does that count? Should I demand more? Again I stick my head around the corner into the living room.

“hannaH, what does a two-year-old dump look like? How much do we need here?”

“Not much,” she tells me. “He’s only two. If there’s anything there at all, you’re done.”

Good enough for me.

I go back and double-check and the peanut butter sneeze is still bobbing there so I tell him, “Alright buddy, you’re done.” When he doesn’t immediately hop off and run to Papa I realize that he needs my help to get down from the pot and get his britches pulled back up, so I reach for him, but he doesn’t react like someone would who needed help getting down. He leans forward…like someone who needs help with…now wait a damn minute.

“hannaH, I am not wiping this kid’s anus!”

She’s in the bathroom now, and smiling. I leave for the living room and find a seat, but Sam begins to cry, loudly, “I want Ben to do it! Ben do it! Please!"

But it’s not going to happen.

Yeah, I know: The day will come when it’ll be my turn. When my own child will be sitting, filthy, on a commode and I will wipe him. When either because it’s my job or my turn or Ruthie isn’t around or because something paternal kicks in and allows me to want to do it. When I do it because it has to be done. When any of a dozen factors contribute to its happening. When I realize that it’s not that bad and receive for my efforts the gratingly patronizing clucks of parents who have come before. That day will surely come.

But it will not be this day.

I get up, make my way back to the bathroom, scene of one of the most bizarre and real and amusing experiences of my life, lock eyes with him one more time and say, from the heart,

“No no, Sam.”

Snowing Again

I'm a Regular Martha Stewart

Keep an empty wine bottle by the bed for collecting spent matches and toenail clippings.

I'm Such a Sap

Watched A League of Their Own last night for the first time and teared up at like three different places.

This is Not a Bright Dog

The Boomer ate a light bulb.

Narf.

This is How Lame Last Night's Opening Band Was

The last thing the guy said was, "Look out for us and give us your love."

Ben Folds Last Night

The Michaels and I started out at Ambar last night, which is my favorite eating place in the world -- good times. Then onto the Cintas Center, where we suffered through the opening band, ("Worldwide" or some such,) and realized that we needn't have rushed from the restaurant.

But Ben Folds was great. Just him and a bass player and a drummer. I love all of the guitar goodness in the world, but I grew up on piano-driven pop -- that's still where my heart is -- and this guy can play. Great, great show.

The only unfortunate part of the evening was when he finally began to play "Carrying Cathy," which is, at least currently, my Favorite Song in the Whole World. Played the intro and I was excited. Began to sing and I was transported; this is why I'd come.

"Her window was hung like a painting, she worried it might come to life..."

Ahh...

And then he stopped. Stopped singing, stopped playing. Said, "I lost my shit." Said, "What's the next line?" And he was serious. I hollered, "Stared for hours!" But we were too far away and there was too much noise. And he sat there for a couple seconds and then said, "Since I fucked it up, I'll come back to it and play it later."

But he never did.

Not enough to ruin a great evening, but a major disappointment.

Ben Folds Tonight!

Hooray!

(hi justin!)

You Know You Live In Cincinnati, Part II

Tuesday it was sixty-three degrees; this morning it's twenty four and there's snow on the ground.

What the hell?

It's Not Just Me

We're all a bit impatient at this point. My mom's version of, What's taking so long for this kid to get here:

"All the little bugger is doing now is getting fat and that's not bad but he could do that outside."

Are We There Yet? Are We There Yet? Are We There Yet? Are We There Yet? Are We There Yet? Are We There Yet? Are We There Yet? Are We There Yet?

Dale came over today and hung a ceiling fan and tonight Ruthie and I got the last of the picture-hanging done and the crib's here and all we're missing is the Bambino. I'm impatient and eager and The Ruth is finally growing weary of being pregnant (she's done so well for so long). Let's do this -- I wanna meet this kid.

Top Five

The delivery room where we're planning to produce this Offspring is equipped with a CD player, and they've encouraged us to bring along some music to push by. I spent some time this morning putting together some CD's of songs that The Ruth picked out and I'm interested to see what's actually spinning when Flanders finally comes out of there. Here then, direct from the home office (literally) are the...

Top Five Songs I'd Most Like to Hear as My First Child Arrives:

1. "The Word Exploded Into Love All Around Me," by Bob Schneider
2. "The Blower's Daughter," by Damien Rice
3. "Cathedrals," by Jump Little Children
4. "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," by That Big Fat Hawaiian Guy Who's Dead Now
5. "The Rain Song," by Led Zeppelin

as always, subject to change

Give it to Us Raw and Wriggling

Had an ton of sushi today for lunch with Tara and it was utterly wonderful. What's not as wonderful is having spent the afternoon belching up raw fish.

Stupid fat hobbit!

Nine Ways You Can Score From Third But Not Second With Two Outs

1. infield single
2. bases loaded walk
3. steal of home
4. wild pitch/passed ball
5. fielder's obstruction
6. catcher's interference
7. infield error
8. balk
9. fielder's choice

My Day

Re-stumbled onto Nickel Creek's This Side again tonight after everyone left (particularly good Tuesday night, by the way). I'd forgotten how incredible that record is.

Looking forward to the Ben Folds concert Sunday night.

Began to assemble a crib this afternoon -- that was a little trippy.

I'm enjoying my job lately -- also a little trippy.

We Made It

In Case You're Interested

My sinuses are so full that my teeth hurt.

Happy Baseball Eve!

Pitchers and catchers report tomorrow.

Karl Malone has Retired

And Reggie Miller will at the end of the season. I think those are the last two guys left standing from when I was a kid and the NBA was watchable. Never liked either of them.

It Begins

3 centimeters dilated, 50% effaced.

You Know You Live in Cincinnati...

When the local radio station advertises "Ash Wednesday Updates."

6 Days

Because People Keep Asking Me

Two things we know for certain about Jose Canseco: 1) He's dumber than a bag of hammers, and, 2) He's bitter at Baseball because of what he perceives as his early departure from the Majors due to racial discrimination. The latter goes a long way toward proving the former. He seems to genuinely believe that there's a conspiracy among MLB teams to keep him out of baseball (which is silly,) and that it's because he's Hispanic, (which is so far beyond silly that I'd need my thesaurus friend Ted to help me address it).

Rather than face the fact that his career is over because his skills finally slipped beyond the level required to compensate for having his personality around, he's going to try to bring baseball down with him. All he's wanted for the past four years has been for a team to keep him around long enough for him to pick up the thirty-eight homers he needs for 500, (and therefore, he thinks, the Hall Of Fame,) but no one wants him, even as a gate attraction, so he'll end up in the Darryl Strawberry "Could've Been" category, (except without any sympathy from anyone,) and you can't hold what could've been on a cold and lonely night.

That doesn't mean he's not telling the truth, it just means that he's not the most credible source. As Wilbon pointed out yesterday on P.T.I., all of Canseco's allegations may turn out to be true, but (my socially unacceptable position on steroids notwithstanding,) this book (which I have not read) sounds like a classic example of Sour Grapes.

My Top Five All-Time Favorite Catchers:

1. Lance Parrish
2. Mickey Cochrane
3. Yogi Berra
4. Joe Girardi
5. Mike LaValliere

Honorable Mention: Jorge Posada

Postmodern Yogi?

When Yogi Berra was in school, he once turned in a test with no answers written in anywhere. His teacher asked, "Don't you know anything?" Yogi replied, "I don't even suspect anything."

And by the Way...

ONE WEEK TO GO!

Rough Day

Ruthie was home sick from work yesterday with symptoms you don't want me to describe. It was only like the second time she's ever called off -- had it bad. I'm about one notch under the weather myself, so we had quite a fun-filled day. She seems better this morning and is off to work like the trooper that she is.

Just so you know.

8 More Days

Troy Aikman has Huge Hands

For the Record

I'll be very surprised if the Patriots lose tomorrow.

Top Five All-Time Favorite Running Backs

1. John Riggins
2. Walter Payton
3. Marcus Allen
4. Earl Campbell
5. Jerome Bettis

and this time they're in order

And as Long as We're Counting Down

Ruthie's due a month from tomorrow.

Hard to Believe

Thursday was my five year anniversary with The Home Depot (you can do it;
we can help).

10 Days

Home Today, Writing for Sunday

It keeps getting harder to do.

365 Days 'til Groundhog Day.

how's that?

12 Days!

13 Days!