Have you ever wondered, seriously wondered, just what exactly gets passed on in our dna, chromosomes, and habits we try to hide from our children? Yeah, me too.
Today I had occasion to wonder even more. It’s a scary world this dna stuff produces.
My oldest son loves to read. Newspapers, Reader’s Digest, humorous posts by his mother. If it’s funny, he will read it. That’s not to say he doesn’t read important stuff, he does. But the funny stuff is his favorite.
As most husbands, fathers, and sons go, my son is not much different. He finds very little alone time to read, so he steals it whenever possible. Well he did until his two year old son began the potty training thing. My son is no longer safe to read in his 10 x 6 sanctuary. Little one knows how to open the door and is more than a bit curious about the details of what Daddy is doing. He wants visual and verbal explanations.
When Daddy is at work, Mom works in earnest to get my grandson to figure out how he can imitate his father and forgo the diapers, which by the way, his father did before his second birthday.
Progress has been slow to say the least. When my son got home yesterday he got to witness heredity first hand.
I’m not crystal clear on all the details, thank you God, but I do know that grandson was in the room on the appropriate porcelain fixture trying to complete the task at hand. He was not being bribed, that comes later in the story.
Every now and then he would beckon his father to come hither, at which point he would exclaim to the world, “I make gas Daddy.” Which was followed by a few appropriate gaseous emissions.
I don’t know what tripped the switch to full heredity but I think grandson must have thought he had spent enough time in there or he figured it would help so he beckoned to his mother, “Mommy, bring my paper.”
Dad fell off the couch hugging his sides spewing forth whatever it was in his mouth. Mother ran to the bookshelf, wiping tears of laughter away and stepping over Dad in the process. She grabbed grandson’s picture books and delivered them to his hands.
At some point grandson had either had enough, read everything, or got hungry because he got down and left the room and the books behind.
End of session.
But not end of story.
Shortly after supper grandson returned to his newly acquired private reading room. Mom and Dad were obliviously. Granddaughter was in her room, or so they thought. Then things became a bit too quiet for a house in which two children live. Dad went in search of the reason for all the quiet.
His son was continuing his training and was sitting on the very device he should use in such training. One child down. He didn’t have to look for his daughter. She was sitting on the side of the tub, grandson’s book in hand, reading diligently to grandson while he produced gaseous omission. She was doing this without the aid of a gas mask, a swim mask, and/or laughter.
Son immediately called for Mom then fell out on the floor in a full blown fit of hysteria. Mom came running to save the life of whoever was in peril of dying. She made it over Dad without tripping but then she fell out or over, on to the bathroom floor.
Two innocent faces that saw nothing wrong in the current arrangement of one reading while one sat on the porcelain fixture, looked at their parents in amazement.
Before the parents were vertical again, granddaughter closed the book and left the room. Grandson looked at his parents, smiled, and said, “I make doo doo Daddy,” turned, put his nekkid butt in the air and said, “Wipe my booty, Mommy.”
I didn’t get to hear the rest of the story, but I’m sure there is one. The parents are unable to tell anymore without fear of wetting their pants, spraying anyone in front of them with liquid, or falling down imitating someone in the throes of a full blown fit.
I would tell you to make up your own ending, I am sure you would miss the mark. I know I did.
From the life and mind of:
Wanda M. Argersinger
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