The Bad Wipe
Elijah made me a pretend breakfast in his toy kitchen this morning. This consisted of, according to him, a tuna sandwich, "spicy chips", a carrot-and-jicama salad, and a glass of lemonade. This was much better than it could have been, as his usual fare consists of something like "barf in pee sauce" or "eggs stuffed inside Hercules' butt." The best part about the breakfast, considering that I'd woken up with Elijah at 7 AM after having not gone to sleep until almost 1 AM the night before, was that it took him almost 45 minutes to prepare. This afforded me much time to lay on Elijah's bed and to stare at his canopy, remembering a time before the first thing I did on Sunday morning involved getting yelled at by a four-year-old because he didn't like what the TIVO had recorded for him.
The breakfast took so long, in fact, that Elijah had to take a break.
He threw down his spatula and declared: "I have to go poopie now."
"Go, then," I said.
Elijah couldn't have been in the bathroom more than 15 seconds when I heard him yell:
"I'M READY TO WIPE!"
He proclaims that every time he's done crapping. Regina and I dread hearing it, because it means we actually do have to wipe another human being's butt. We may not quite be obligated to do this by law, but we love our son and we don't want him walking around smelling like dried shit.
I went into the bathroom, and, as I always do, I examined the evidence.
"It's a little poop this time," said Elijah. "It was soft and it didn't make my butt hurt."
"That's great, son," I said.
I fished a couple of sheets off the roll and did my part.
"Ew," I said. "Mushy."
A couple of additional swipes didn't quite clear the crime scene. We needed extra supplies. On the windowsill sat a box of wet wipes. I popped it open. Empty. Next to those was a packet of fresh wipes. I tried to open it, but it was obviously childproofed.
"What are you doing, daddy?" Elijah asked.
"Wait here," I said. "Do not move."
So I left him standing there with a piece of toilet paper stuck to his butt. He was in the exact position about a minute later, when I returned with a scissors. I cut open the packet and pulled out a fresh wipe. His butt was fully sterilized within seconds.
"There you go, son," I said. "Now go finish my breakfast."
A few hours later, Regina emerged from her tomb. Soon, she paid a visit to the bathroom. I went into my office to watch yet another disastrous fantasy-football week unfold. A couple of minutes later, I heard this:
"Neal, did you use all of my wipes already?"
She appeared in my doorway.
"What?"
"All of my wipes. Where are they?"
"I put them in the green container."
"You what?"
"Where the wet wipes go."
"Did you wipe Elijah's butt with one of those?"
"Yes."
"Dammit, Neal. Those are for cleaning the toilet and the sink. They contain harsh chemicals!"
"Oh."
"He could get a huge rash on his butt."
"Right."
"You need to wash his butt right now."
"You've got to be kidding."
"I am not. It might eat away his flesh."
"That's doubtful."
"You never know," she said, and she called into the other room:
"Elijah, go into the bathroom and pull down your pants so daddy can wash your butt!"
By the time I got to the bathroom with the washcloth, Elijah was standing at the ready. I washed his butt and then, on Regina's request, washed it again. Amazingly, Elijah didn't ask why once. The kid has no shame. I still can't figure out where he got that quality.
Later, we went on a family hike. Elijah announced that his butt was itchy. Regina gave me raised eyebrows, indicating that she'd predicted this disaster correctly.
"See," she said. "It's the chemicals."
"Or maybe he just has an itchy butt," I said.
"Maybe," she said. "But not likely."
I was actually right for once, a fact to which Regina could not cop. Still, I'd learned my parenting lesson for the week. Don't wipe your kid's butt using a cloth covered with astringent, abrasive chemicals. You can mark that in stone.