Thanks to all who chimed in regarding TwoBert's bowels, and the minimal production thereof. And let the word go forth from this time and place that all is well. TwoBert gave forth Friday night, and most of it made it into the toilet. We're not quite sure how the rest of it got where it got (my wife aptly suggested we call in a CSI team to analyze the splatter pattern), but it's all down the pipe now.
And now, we must quite belatedly shift topics to something far more compelling: Why I've been crying so much lately.
It started when idle clicking landed me on ABC Family and "The Sound of Music," right when the kids meet Baroness Schräder in their sopping drapeclothes. The Captain is incensed. Mortified. He's ready to take Maria back to the abbey by the scruff of her neck. But when the kids sing "Edelweiss," years of spiritual plaque are wiped away, and the Captain embraces his children and admits he's been a dick. Hokey as hell, and it makes me blubber every time.
Later, Robert and I found ourselves debating the merits of bunk beds, and he suggested we just put TwoBert's bed on top of his. I told him his bed probably wasn't strong enough, and he assured me that his bed could hold "a buffalo, Eli Manning, and a 10-year-old." Which kind of floored me and had me laugh-crying out of pure shock.
Today I had the chance to clear a few episodes of "In Treatment" off the DVR, and I saw the one from last Tuesday when Alex's dad visits Paul. The discussion is gut-wrenchingly sad and teeming with filial angst, and when I regained my composure I called my dad and told him I loved him.
And then came the pièce de résistance at the playground. TwoBert and I were playing our usual game on the swings, whereby he hurtles at me and I pretend he's kicked me in the face. I jerk my head back and send my cap flying over my head, to hilarious effect. The caveat, however, is not to gaze over his shoulder and look for your other son, lest 32 pounds of torque hit you square in the schnozz.
This, too, will bring the tears, each one a karmic reminder not to discuss your kid's pooping problems on the Internet.