When you learn how to speak Boy, interpretation is key. Simple answers like "yes" and "no" may be devastating in and of themselves, based on the question you have just asked. However,
qualifying those answers is what tells the real tale and does the real damage. Restrictions and modifications are
never a good thing.
Let us examine this particular qualification: "only a little." You'll notice that, when it comes to qualified answers, there is a distinct format that deviates from the norm. Instead of a simple Q and A pattern, as is the standard, it has now become Q and A and Q.
- Q. Exactly how much syrup did you put on your waffle?
- A. Only a little.
- Q. Then why are you asking for a mop?
- Q. How much flea powder did you put on the cat?
- A. Only a little.
- Q. Then why are you asking whether or not the kitty likes to have baths and where did you get that white cat? Our cat is black.
- Q. I smell smoke! Is something on fire?
- A. Only a little.
- Q. Why isn't the answer to that question, "no"?
And so we arrive at Saturday afternoon. You may recall the
slight hitch in my plans to put the Christmas lights on the house. For some reason, I not only learned
nothing from this previous experience, but I managed to compound the problem by not paying attention in math. Instead of putting Logan down for a nap with one other child inside the house acting as a lookout (albeit an apathetic one), I put Logan down for a nap after waving the other two boys good-bye and watching them depart with my wife on a school related project for the upcoming levy. That, coupled with the fact that we,
apparently,
always put a pull-up on him at nap time sealed my fate.
Certainly it could be said that I did my best to be quick and efficient. Lights were removed. Cords were bundled. Progress was being made. No sooner had I reached the highest gable of the house on a 20 foot extension ladder than I heard the melodious strains of a wailing boy who had woken from his 30 minute nap in an empty house. I slid down the ladder and ran around the house to the back door. There, in the kitchen, stood Logan, crying.
"Daddy, am I done with my nap now?" he sobbed.
"Yes, Logan, you can get up now," I said, trying hard not to roll my eyes.
Then I noticed his underpants.
"Logan! Did you wet the bed?"
He immediately stopped crying, grabbed his drawers and began to hop on the spot.
"Yes, but only a little bit," he reassured me.
Oh, rats! I made my way down the hall and snapped on the light in his bedroom. There before me lay his bed - wet in ways I didn't know a bed
could be...the step stool still dripping and a trail across the carpet, leading down the hall to the bathroom where it stopped five feet
before the toilet.
"How in heaven's name...what am I gonna...uh...Logan."
A full and complete sentence was not within my grasp. I turned to face the boy who had dutifully followed me throughout the house as the
yellow mystery unfolded. At the very least he had the decency to look
slightly abashed. As I stood there trying to decide what to do first, it slowly dawned on me that my socks were wet. That seemed odd. I am not a new father and experience told me to be very careful where I stepped and not just plow through the house. Retracing my steps I discovered that, while the trail may have gone cold before it reached the toilet, it did, in fact, go all the way down the hall, across the kitchen floor and down the back steps to the door. I was doomed from the moment I stepped in from the cold and took off my shoes.
As I related this anecdote to my wife that evening, all she could do was laugh. Can you blame her?
- 7 January 2012
