Potty Humor

Coulda sworn I left something in here…

Welcome to another tickling tidbit of Thrilling Tales of Toddlerdom!

The other day I was sitting with our toddler (me on a stool, her on the potty) and waiting for the punctually scheduled morning bowel movement. After one-two-three little grunts and a squinched up face like a dehydrated lemon, I knew we had another successful fiber deposit.

Suddenly, she peeked down into the toilet bowl and exclaimed with astonishment, “Oh! There’s a mommy poop and a daddy poop and a baby poop—the baby poop goes ‘waahhh!’” A terrific example of transfer and application of knowledge. A truly laugh out loud moment.

No convoluted life metaphor this week. I’m not comparing poo portions to some deeper philosophical thought. Just: it’s good to take time to find and enjoy the funny moments in life. At work, over a meal, in bed, or on the potty; allow yourself a chortle or two. Enjoy the odd and comical and absurd, like warm soup for a sick soul.

This has been Thrilling Tales of Toddlerdom!

Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thunder Like a Toddler

The storms come. They always do.

On one such day, when our wobbly, bobbly toddler heard the roaring clouds, she exclaimed with fierce certainty, “The thunder is loud…! Just like me!” Oh yes, the thunder is loud just like you. Well, almost. Maybe the thunder isn’t quite that loud.

It reminds me of the often reconceptualized proverb: “Fate whispers to the warrior, ‘You cannot withstand the coming storm.’ The warrior whispers back, ‘I am the storm.’”

Perhaps you’re in the midst of a cruel storm right now. It’s dark and deafening and there’s no end in sight. But let me tell you a secret: the storm is not greater. The sun rises, not the night. Darkness never covers the light. The smallest flame spreads and illuminates the entire room.

When the thunder yells, you can yell right back: “I know you are, but what am I‽” 😝

And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about. – Haruki Murakami

Alexa… Alexa… ALEXA!!!

Alexa, why oh why did I cross the road?

Our doting toddler recently mastered the ability to use our Echo Dot which can only mean two things:

  1. Listening to “Baby Shark” a bazillion times.
  2. Never listening to any particular song all the way through again. Ever.

Initially, it’s one of the cutest things to hear that tiny, squeaky voice peep out “Alexa, play Baby Shark please!” But all good things must come to an end. What begins as adorable quickly fades into aberration. Alexa becomes an insanity-inducing device; a form of cruel and unusual punishment like waterboarding, except, it’s song-and-rhyme-boarding.

Seriously, what is it with kids’ songs anyways and all the morbid undertones? A song about a family of bloodthirsty carnivores on the hunt for their next unsuspecting prey with cheerful hand motions to accompany the death and despair?

If I hear that song one more time, I’m gonna go nuts. It’s like someone has cut open my skull, scrubbed my head with bleach and a Brillo pad, and then blended my brain with jalapenos, sandburs, and thumbtacks.

But then I remember: these are precious moments, and they won’t last forever. I must learn to cherish them, all of them. Despite the monotonous, repetitive dribble drabble, there is a contemplative solace to be found in ritual. Life doesn’t have to be “just going through the motions” even when you’re just going through the motions—even when those motions involve toothless sharks. Within the daily routine we might find a divine rite. If we stop to look for it; if we have eyes to see. The simple spaces become sacred places.

Because re-experiencing the familiar time and again allows one to focus in on the deeper, often overlooked realities. As my daughter and I sing and dance to Baby Shark for the tenth time in a row, my heart and mind become free to see my beloved child in fresh new ways. I see the sparkle in her eyes. I hear the giggle in her voice. I feel the delight in her soul. And my heart is overwhelmed.

Although, of course, sometimes Alexa doesn’t “work” because she’s tired and needs to rest (i.e., mommy or daddy unplugged her). That’s ok too. We can live life to the fullest in silence as well.

The best and most beautiful things in this world cannot be seen or even heard but must be felt with the heart. – Helen Keller

Slippery Slope

We took the kids to this natural spring swimming area located in a national park. Overall, it was delightful experience. But there’s a couple of things about these parks that aren’t ideal. Specifically, I’m talking the slick algae and moss growing on all the rocks and steps and ladders. I always feel like I’m gonna slip and bust my head open while trying to get in the water.

But the real kicker is this: the park had installed these railings around the entire swimming area. They looked as if they would function both as safety rails (to prevent people from accidently falling in the water) and as hand rails (to help people safely enter and exit the water).

But if you thought that these rails were for helping people to not slide and tumble while getting in and out of the pool, then you would be so very wrong, and the livid lifeguards perched atop their judgment nests would surely let you know of your transgressions with the blowing of trumpets blasting forth from the clouds and with cups of wrath flooded out onto the earth as fire and brimstone from the grave.

“Stay off the rails!!!”

The shouts of condemnation would pierce into a person’s soul and then some would inevitably fall like lemmings to their demise (actually, the lemmings jumping off cliffs thing is a total myth).

One friendlier lifeguard approached us and said, “Hey guys, you can climb and jump off the rocks all you want, but you’ve got to stay off the rails please.”

And I’m thinking… wait, wait, wait a second here… First of all, there are no signs about staying off the rails. Maybe if there were signs, you wouldn’t have to scare people half to death with your four horses of the apocalypse war cries.

Secondly, maybe there were signs, but I don’t know because I wasn’t paying attention. Who has time to read when you’re too busy trying not to die while algae figure-skating?

But thirdly, seriously? We need to stay away from these securely mounted railings, but those super slippery, goo-covered rocks are fine‽ These rocks are by far the most dangerous thing out here! And what’s the point of all these rails in the first place if not to use them?

Sometimes, life doesn’t quite make sense. Like pineapple on pizza or pickles on peanut butter or hot sauce on mango… it can be difficult to rationalize the sanity of the world. But take heart, and do not lose hope! For to hope is to be human. That we can continue to imagine a better world and believe in a better future is a testament to the divine nature in all of us. At times I start to lose faith in humanity like I’ve lost faith in Sony’s ability to produce good a Spider-Man movie. But then I remember: Hey, chicken and waffles are delicious! What an unexpectedly great idea‽ Perhaps, truly, there is hope after all.

(By the way, if you happen to know why these park rail rules exist, then please don’t bother letting me know why; you can feel free to not email me at MySpace… is that still a thing? Don’t let me know. Not really interested.)

You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty. – Mahatma Gandhi

Falling with Style

The first time I went skiing was also my last. It was a youth group ski trip. Cliché, I know. And yes, this is another story of me nearly dying in (West Virginia). I’ve never been very adept at those balance and coordination-type activities. Also, who came up with skiing in the first place? Oh, I know, here’s a great idea: why don’t we lock and strangle our ankles to these impractically large planks and then zoom down these snow-covered deathtrap hills while holding treacherous pointy spears?

I didn’t even own any snow gear, so I had to borrow a hodgepodge of items from several people. My outfit included the brightest-luminescent-yellow-green snow pants you’ve ever seen. I looked like some kind of road hazard sign out on the slopes. People actively avoided me—I assume because they thought I was letting visitors know which parts of the ski slope were closed for maintenance. Do they have slope maintenance? Do janitors mop hilltops?

One of my friends, who was far more experienced in this sadistic sport, graciously took me under his wing. He tried to teach me the ropes. Then he just left me to hang myself with the rope. Clearly, I was a lost cause. I guess they call it the bunny slope because a cluster of bunnies had all gathered around to watch in curiosity and delight at the giant lime puff flailing about in the snow. After practicing my face plants a few hundred times (my nose felt like the forgotten popsicle left in the back of the freezer after last summer’s cookout) we decided it was time for me to try skiing, or belly-sliding, down one of the actual slopes.

We navigated our way onto the lift, and then my friend told me where to descend. He explained that I was getting off on the easy, beginner slope, while he was going to go to a more advanced one. “Here Finley, this is a green circle slope so you should be fine.” I’m sure you can guess where this is going. It wasn’t a green circle. It was a black diamond. I must have gone down the wrong side or something. I don’t know why they put those mountains so close to each other. And I thought going down was supposed to be the easy part.

I quickly realized that this whole skiing thing wasn’t going to work. I wouldn’t survive. So I changed techniques and just allowed myself to roll down the mountainside like a neon cream puff which was discarded into the garbage after melting at the church potluck picnic. I felt the embarrassment of a snow owl turn its bulbous eyes away in shame at the sight as I bounced and thrashed and floundered my way to the bottom.

I was a cold, lonely tumbleweed blowing in the wind.

Later, my friend confessed that he realized his mistake and was genuinely worried about me. He thought I died and was asking everyone if they had seen a guy who looked like an intoxicated Elton John impersonator hanging off a cliff.

Sometimes, life can be unexpectedly challenging. Perhaps you too have found yourself standing on the precipice of a black diamond slope and staring into the belly of the beast. You didn’t choose these circumstances, but here you are, and now you must decide: do I take a leap of faith and venture out into the abyss, or do I plop down on my bum and make snow angels until I die of exposure to the elements?

Choices. All you can do is choose how to respond to life. If you can’t ski down the mountain, then slide. If you can’t slide, then stroll. If you can’t stroll, then roll and tumble. Just keep going. You’ll make it, and you’ll be better for it.

As for me, next time I’m going tubing. Sounds more my speed since I can sit the whole time. I have this life dream of eating a donut while sitting in a rubber donut tube and being pulled around by a snowmobile doing donuts. Dream big.

If you can’t fly, then run. If you can’t run, then walk. If you can’t walk, then crawl; but whatever you do, you have to keep moving forward. – Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Noodle Polish

We tried out a new Japanese restaurant this past week. Perhaps I should say faux American-Japanese because we all know it’s not really what they eat in Japan. In fact, one time when we had a foreign exchange student from Japan visiting he really wanted to go to an American-Japanese restaurant because he couldn’t get that kind of food back home. But that’s another story.

This story. This story is about the creative depths of a toddler that transcend all logic and known knowledge about the universe and reality.

As we finished our teriyaki chicken and soba noodles, our pint-sized person was displaying some particularly peculiar behavior. She selected a pristine and perfect noodle of choice, and she delicately dipped the noddle into teriyaki sauce. Then she methodically and artfully began to paint her nails with the gluten string and black goo. And I thought I had years before I had to worry about my rebellious teenage daughter with her black nail polish, gothic “nobody-understands-me” phase.

Yes, after completing her meal, our toddler had decided to treat herself to a little spa day right there in her highchair. I was equally bewildered by her creativity, mesmerized by her skill, and proud of her proclivity to repurpose and recycle. Reduce that carbon footprint y’all.

I was also curious as to whether we could start a business and market this new product. They make edible arrangements and even edible underwear. So why not edible nail polish? Especially for young kids—they always be chewing on their germ-infested fingers anyways.

So, as you get ready for the day, ready to face the world and its judgments, don’t be afraid to be yourself. Express yourself girlfriend! Boyfriends too! Let your imagination empower you to stand against challenges with courage and creativity. You do you because what the world needs is more people who are actual real people and not the fabricated façades that we manufacture in response to social media, pop culture, and peer pressure. In other words, don’t pretend to be Japanese chicken when you’re really from Salisbury, Maryland. Is the chicken local? How local? Can I get some basic background information and family history? Were they a graduate of Purdue Perdue U?

This world is but a canvas to our imagination. – Henry David Thoreau

Wave Your Flag

This past Independence Day brought me back to memories of a simpler time. Once, while still in high school, some friends and I went on a hike through the Blue Ridge Mountains.

On this particular day, on this particular hike, we came upon an old dilapidated deer tree stand. So, of course, we decided it would be a dandy fine idea to climb it. Because when you’re a teenager you’re not really living unless you’re playing Russian roulette with your life. I don’t quite remember, but I’m pretty sure I was one of the first ones to go up because I was often volunteered to test the structural integrity of such things.

The poor excuse for a “ladder” was really just some old planks of wood ambiguously nailed into a tree trunk. As I started to climb up the split and partly rotted toothpick steps, I thought, “why, oh why?” As I got higher, the wind blew—just to say hello.

When I got to the top, those down below asked, “How’s it look up there?” I thought, “Oh yes, just terrific! Lovely view. I’m so glad I climbed all the way up here just so that I could see the same trees that I could already see on the ground, but now, I clearly appreciate those trees more because I’m about to die.”

I then carefully, gingerly began my descent. But as I climbed down, one of my friends started to climb up. Naturally, he had determined that this was the perfect time and place to pants me.

I shouted, “Hey, what are you doing‽ Cut that out! Get outta here!” But my pleas for mercy went unacknowledged. Soon I was hanging up there in that tree, twenty feet off the ground with my derrière exposed to the elements.

At the time, I was a wee bit embarrassed. But now, looking back, I take it all as a reminder to be proud of your heritage and what your momma gave you. You are a truly beautiful individual, fearfully and wonderfully made.

I like to think I did Harland Williams (RocketMan, 1997) proud. Hugging the top of that tree with my posterior flapping in the wind like a flag. I was a proud flag; a regal, high-flying flag suitable for fireworks and hot dogs—a display of what it truly means to celebrate independence.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: however you choose to celebrate the Fourth of July, don’t do it with aerial rockets at 1:30 A.M. IN THE MORNING (redundancy for literary affect)! Because I now have the city police non-emergency number on speed dial.

“Every individual has a place to fill in the world and [he/she] is important in some respect, whether he/she chooses to be so or not.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne

I’ve Gotta Foodie Feeling About This

We had some friends from out of town visit with us this past week, and it was awesome. It was awesome because our friends are awesome. But it was also awesome because when people visit it means that we eat out at all the best spots. Hi, my name if Finley, and I have a very intense, emotional relationship with food.

When friends and family are around, what do we do? We eat. And we usually eat way more than what’s normally socially acceptable. It’s like we’re making up for lost time or something. Most activities revolve around eating. As soon as people arrive, we start making plans for eating. If there’s a time we’re sitting around just doing nothing (probably, because we’re at the dining table having just finished eating) then someone usually recommends getting something to eat. And we always have to have dessert—even though we typically don’t have dessert—after every meal. Breakfast, lunch, dinner.

Anyways, one evening we went out for dinner at a local favorite bar-b-que spot. The next morning, I woke up with a meat hangover. To counteract the effects, we then went to an artesian bakery for breakfast. You know, because breakfast is supposedly the most important meal of the day (according to breakfast cereal companies that advertise sugar-infused, syrup-coated wood chips for children).

Yes, breakfast is so important for eating all the right foods: like cake. That’s why we eat things like fried flat sweet dough (pancakes) and bald cupcakes pretending to be healthy by calling themselves muffins. And if you’re less pretentious, you just go ahead and eat birthday cake for breakfast because, yolo, right? (Actually, I believe Jim Gaffigan has a whole spiel on this if you want to look him up.)

After the pork belly bloat, then came the carb coma. All in all, it was a rather delightful time with our friends.

But after meals like these, things do tend to get a little fuzzy… like a self-administered anesthesia to help me sleep my troubles away.

However, I may not remember everything I ate this weekend because I passed out sometime between bread pudding and third dessert, but I do remember the way it made me feel. At first, euphoria and delight, followed by guilt and indigestion. I realize that after eating ten pounds of food, my body literally weighs more, but still, it feels like moving requires the effort of a competitive weightlifting event. It’s like my insides have turned into a waterbed filled with cement and cotton balls.

So, the point is: as in food, such is life. Remember that the way you live your life has a meaningful impact on others. So be kind. Do good. What’s the point in being mean, hateful, and angry? Life’s way too short for that nonsense. Treat others the way you want to be treated. I want to be treated to a tasty ice cream treat. Please buy me some ice cream. Let’s all just try to be decent human beings. Don’t be hideous.

I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

– Maya Angelou

When Life Feels Constipated

Living life with a toddler is a daily adventure. No shortage of blog post topics. The other day, she was sitting on the potty when this little exchange occurred.

She strained, “Ugh, it’s not working! It stuck. There’s a hino-cheer-us in there!”

“Oh,” I replied. “A rhinoceros is stuck in there?” (I believe this is in reference to a children’s book in which a rhino gets stuck in a tree—because that’s totally normal.)

“Uhuh,” she nodded, and then she looked down into the toilet bowl. “Where are you poopie? It’s ok. Come on out!”

I said, “Yeah, ya rhinoceros, get outta here.”

When I was a kid, like around seven or something, one of my teachers told me, “Finley! You’re slower than molasses coming out of a constipated cow!” I didn’t even know what molasses or constipated meant. I just shrugged and took it as a compliment. Now that I know what she actually meant, I still take it as a compliment.

Sometimes, life just feels like one big, boring waiting game. Like standing in the longest line ever at a Department of Motor Vehicles located inside of the newest ride at Disney World. Or waiting in the drive-thru outside of a Krispy Kreme on free-donut day and the apocalypse is scheduled for tomorrow. I hate waiting. It gets so frustrating. This is why we invented fast food and Internet right? I shouldn’t have to wait for anything.

But maybe there’s something essential about moments of waiting too. Waiting teaches us that the whole world doesn’t revolve around us and our itinerary, like how I need to speed up and cut this person off in traffic so that I can hurry up and wait at the next stop light. Waiting slows us down and gives us the opportunity to reflect on the world around us, like who is the fella with ostrich feathers in his hair and all the other weird people standing in this line? Being bored and waiting can help us to learn how to think, plan, and be creative.

Maybe waiting isn’t something to be avoided at all costs. Maybe waiting is a time that can be embraced and even cherished in our modern lives of frenzy and frantic. Maybe there’s an art to actively waiting.

So, the next time you find yourself stuck in a line or stuck on the toilet or stuck waiting on life to start, just remember to find ways to redeem the time. That and drink some prune juice.

I should really set a calendar reminder to delete this post before my daughter is old enough to be embarrassed by reading it…

How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.

– attributed to Anne Frank

Being a Foster Dad

Being a foster dad is awesome; an incredible blessing everyday. Truthfully, being a father in any capacity is a great gift and joy. One of the things that I love most about being a dad is all the things I get to teach my kids. Things like:

  • Teaching them how to be self-sufficient and solve problems on their own like when something goes wrong with the plumbing and good ole’ dad needs to fix it.
  • Or teaching them how to be inquisitive and proactive like when we need to watch YouTube tutorials on how to fix the plumbing when our first fix didn’t go so well.
  • Or teaching them how to be wise and humble like when we need to look up and call a real plumber to come fix the bigger mess that I made before the entire house floods over.
  • Also, teaching them how to match their clothes in the morning like how stripes and plaid go together because they both have lines in them, duh.
  • Also, also, teaching them how to eat a balanced diet like a lunch of pickles (vegetable), mac n’ cheese (grain and dairy), and spoons full of peanut butter right out of the jar (protein and fat). I can even teach them the value of recycling and conservation by saving leftover food in your hair or pockets for later. For myself, I grow a beard to reap the rewards of a nice little flavor-saver. Mmm… my mustache still smells and tastes like garlic knots.
  • And of course, teaching them more about their own selves and how to make various bodily noises and flatulent imitations.

With all these things and more, fostering brings a different kind of special to the mix. I am so deeply in love and in fondness of the little two-year-old girl we have. She may have other parents, but I am her daddy and she is my daughter—my little moon. And nothing will ever change that.

She may not have my eyes, but she has my every admiring glance and smile.

She may not have my ears, but she has my full attention and adoration.

She may not have my nose, but she has my sense of wonder and adventure.

She may not have my complexion, but she has all my hugs and kisses.

What she does have is what is most important. She has my heart. She has my mind. She has my soul. She has my very life, and I would gladly give it up for her.

She also seems to have my uncanny ability to make realistic fart raspberries on demand.

“It is not flesh and blood, but heart which makes us fathers and sons.”

– Friedrich von Schiller