“Daddy, I gotta go.”
We are speeding down the interstate with full bellies, Uncle Sergio and Freddie Mercury. Having concluded some Business in San Diego, and then having grabbed some lunch at the best lil wing shack chain restaurant on this side of the moon, Hooters.
What? I really do like their wings, and as a matter of fact I did read the articles in Playboy (WHATTTTTT?!)… Look, it’s not my fault that when I would show up with my adorable toddler son at Hooters he would be lost in a sea of, well of orange shorts and pantyhose. Don’t judge me, contrary to popular belief I was not trolling and using my young son for bait..
He loved the wings too, and the Balloons. He really loved the Balloons. God bless balloons. Balloons are great they make everyone happy. So full, and round, and squeeze…..anyway. Don’t judge me. Even Uncle Sergio likes Hooters, and I’d bet that had Freddie Mercury been with us that day he might have had a change of heart and lifestyle. Just saying.
“DADDY. I GOTTA GO!” The mancub says again with urgency in his voice. I see him clutching himself and squirming in his carseat, brow furrowed in concentration. We had been trying to kick the huggies habit for quite a while now, and had suffered some pretty serious relapses. A wet bed, a wet couch, I think the Dog may have gotten a golden shower too. We had a talk: “Big Boys don’t wet the bed, couch, dog, or Daddy’s truck EVER. Big Boys ALWAYS use the potty!”
We tried the pull ups, we did the cheerios trick (On occasion I still enjoy dunking a few cheerios in the toilet with the old water cannon. Don’t judge me), we had the little potty, the big potty, etc. We finally had him trained, the price was when he was sinking cheerios it was a team effort: “Daddy hurry grab the cheerios!” And so we, father and son, would stand side by side using the Big boy toilet making quite a splash.
“DADDYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!” I quickly pulled the truck over in the barren desert on interstate 8, fifty miles from the nearest jon.
“Hurry Bug.” We exit the vehicle with Uncle Sergio, this time it’s gonna be a committee affair as we all get ahold of ourselves. NOW ! That’s Bonding. Ladies, I’m sorry (I feel an ass kicking coming on) until you can stand up, erect (not hunched over in a semi fetal position trying not to get your panties wet whilst looking for a soft leaf to wipe with), with your friends and take care of business whilst laughing or making pee art in the dust. That is the fiery crucible that forges relationships that last a lifetime. Men who pee together go to War together. Walk into a men’s room on any given Sunday and you’ll walk out with a brother who has your back. Ladies? Walk into…well after you wait 37 minutes in line, then bum a wadded up Kleenex from one of your soul sisters like a bum looking for a smoke, then as you hover over the seat not so high as to make a splash, but not so low as to touch the seat…How can you bond after that? That’s not bonding, that’s PTSD.
As we exit the vehicle I see my son scanning the surrounding low desert scrub. He searches intently. “Son, come on…”
“Daddy where is the bafroom?”
“No son, no bathroom we just go over there on that bush” I motion to Uncle Sergio to follow as I’m thinking: he better have to pee as I am going to need a full scale attack on this. Pee for none, or all for pee n stuff. We unzip and let flow as my son watches all confused.
“Daddy you said I have to use the Potty, Big Boys ALWAYS use the potty!” Those of you fellas who have ever been married or you have had a girlfriend, you know that moment when you have said something pretty smart that comes back to bite you on the ass. It’s a cross between bewilderment and awe. Your truly amazed at how something so insignificant can be twisted into a weapon and come back to nearly decapitate you. “Bigboys ALWAYS use the potty.”
Ummm bush, bush, bush. Honesty is the best policy, take it like a man. “Son the bushes are just like potties, God put them here for us to pee on.” I lied through my teeth.
“Daddy where are the cheerios?” Thank God after lots of temper tantrums, crying, pleading, kicking of the sand (Connor got upset too) my son let fly with the little fire hose and became a man. A man stands tall, unit in hand, and makes pee dust art.
A few months later, we stopped at a gas station bathroom to use the facilities, as I held the door for the mancub, I saw him pass through then stop in wild eyed wonder gazing before us.
“Daddy look!” It was the granddaddy of all urinals, a full length all the way to the floor model, No need to be concerned with dripping, you were covered. Fire when ready, let fly wing commander, release the Kraken!
First of all, I want to just touch base: he was TOTALLY trolling his son at Hooters. Every man knows that the best way to make a circle of women around them, of all shape and sizes is to be an obviously single caring father who’s doing the best he can. And if you walk into Hooters, putting on that show, damn straight you’re trolling your kid. PERIOD. Perrrrverrrrttttt.
Anyway! Potty training… soooo fun. Sort of. I remember my mother potty training my little brother and sister and how effectively they hated going potty in the big kid potty. My brother actually hid under the kitchen table once and let loose a golden Lake Brother. And my sister would wait so long to go to the bathroom until she was walking with crossed legs – LITERALLY. Funniest shit EVER. We still tease her about it to this day.
It would include touching potty training stories about my kids, if I had any at this point in time. Maybe in the future I will make an edit to this about the joys of potty time. Until then… probably nah!
This is a blog about peeing. I don’t care what he says, SHE says this is a blog about peeing. I am going to first remark, if you think standing side by side, whipping your junk sticks out in front of each other and letting loose your liquid waste is a bonding experience… pretty sure you’re a bit weird. At what point in time do you finally realize that’s actually a bit awkward? The struggle to make sure your eyes never wonder to the incorrect angle and if they do, trying not to look at their face to make sure that they didn’t notice? I am glad I am not a guy. I would not be using urinals. I would be a little bitch and use the stall to pee. Then again, if I were a guy…maybe I would think differently.
Secondly. The woman’s bathroom ISN’T always traumatic. And actually the getting safely into the stall and peeing privately is sometimes the best part of the women’s bathroom experience. Usually women are nice enough to hand you toilet paper if you let out a: “Damn it. Anyone here?” It’s before and after you get out of the stall where your experience can go terribly wrong. It’s like the stall is the neutral zone.
Now I have noticed, in restaurants (normal ones anyway) or Wal-Mart or something, the environment is perfectly friendly. We smile at each other, sometimes we have little battles with the automatic soap dispenser or towels, or women bring their tiny children in and their children are being hilarious (because potty training is SO much fun in public) and we laugh with each other. It’s all cool like slushies.
BUT! Bars and clubs? Oh god no it’s like an African Safari and it’s mating season so all the cheetahs are bitchy and territorial, and you’d best not walk in feeling like a Wildebeest. . Women will literally check each other out and dog each other in the restroom of clubs and bars.Usually because feeling drunk women are more susceptible to having low self esteem or feeling like the bad bitch they think they are, they will dog everyone, prettier or someone they think isn’t prettier than them (Or the fucking boyfriend smiled at that bitch earlier.. whatever). The only safe ones are the she-devils that came in packs, which by the way, it’s true we travel in packs. If a woman walks into the bathroom alone it’s because she’s in a secure relationship and she doesn’t need the validation of other she-bitches.
It’s a scary, scary place the women’s restroom in places of party time. And for you bitches who are in the bathroom taking selfies in the club bathroom mirror STOP THAT. Women are waiting to wash their hands damn it! Go take your fuckin’ selfies on the dance floor or something!
And that’s my blog about the peeing experience (of all the things to write about, REALLY?) from the She experience.
