I’m happy to report that the three of us are back together, and order has abruptly been unrestored. Toys have once again made the living room unsafe for bare feet, the dining room table is piled high with Robert’s new fall wardrobe, and I greet each morning by Waiting to Excrete.
Initially, taking a leak together was Robert’s and my morning ritual. We stood side by side, Flynn and Rathbone, feinting and parrying and making bubbles, Robert marveling at the spectacle of his new talent. But those days are gone, slain by his new priorities toward “privacy” and “myself.” Now, when we roll out of bed, he sprints to the bathroom and yells over his shoulder, “I’ll go first and you wait your turn in line behind my back and you can go after!”
This would be fine, were I not also keen to offload. Each morning, he arrives at the bowl and enters some sort of trance, like an Olympic diver, staring down at the still water below. Then the loop begins: 1) pull up pajama top; 2) pin it under chin; 3) reach for waistband; 4) disengage jaw from chest; 5) allow shirt to fall back over belly; 6) go to Step 1. After a few sequences, I tire of rocking back and forth and offer help. He swats me away amid strident protest. “I have to do it myself!” But Daddy has to go, too. Can we go together just this once? For old time’s sake? “No! You wait your turn, please!”
Finally, he manages to drop trou and let fly, and it’s OK for me to follow suit. Then it’s time for him to challenge me to a race to the living room, and I usually win because his pajama bottoms are still around his ankles.
