I'm Naked!

Among my oldest son’s countless foibles, the one that I must admit causes me the greatest deal of concern and consternation is his apparent inability to function in the bathroom at what I would consider a “normal” level.

I’m positive that, physiologically speaking, all systems are “go.” I don’t believe, that is, that there are any problems with actually performing his bodily functions. My alarm stems solely from the noises and inappropriate disruptions that seem to emanate from the room whenever my eleven-year-old child finds it necessary to visit.

These are not the natural and admittedly humorous sounds, mind you, to which one might think I am referring. I can, along with any male of varying maturity level who is secure enough to own up to his own childish whims, appreciate a good fart—and actively participate in public gaseous eruptions on occasion to the delight of my boys and stern disapproval of my beautiful wife.

My son, however, creates such an unsettling din while in the toilet as to annoy and otherwise cause great stress and worry for his mother and me as we imaginatively ponder what possible wet and bacterial calamity can be occurring overhead. Whether showering or voiding bowel and bladder, a symphony of crashing, stumbling, pounding, squeaking and scraping accompanies my son until, mercifully, the flushing of the toilet signifies an end to the venture, prompting one of we unlucky parents to undertake the odious task of investigating and cleaning up whatever manner of destruction and fecal/urinary/watery pollutants that are left behind.

One recent occasion, though, transcended the usual unpleasantness and delved into the downright disturbing. A human being who has lived longer than a decade should possess a basic ability to poop and pee without too much fanfare, and the fact that my boy doesn’t is distressing enough. The following account, however, still chills me to recall and has been the reason for a considerable amount of lost sleep.

My son was upstairs and presumably in the bathroom, though no announcement had been issued as is normally the boy’s protocol. The customary noises began, but seemed at length to continue well beyond the requisite time for even my son to finish the necessary activity and return to his usual play and sulking behavior. I waited. Soon my anxiety over the condition of our tiny little water closet got the best of me, and glancing nervously at my wife, I slowly climbed the stairs with all of the trepidation of a hapless, witless horror film victim. As I approached the tightly shut and secured door of the bathroom, I was halted by the panicked voice of my boy warning me not to come in!

“What’s the matter?” I spat back, fearing that some horrible tragedy had befallen the child. Had he slipped and injured himself? Had he managed to somehow lodge a limb in the toilet or even fallen headlong into the bowl? These options, considering my son’s history of bizarre behavior, did not seem at all unreasonable or unrealistic.

He responded with kind of irritated and drawn-out “Nothing!” that any parent knows automatically implies the contrary.

I grasped the doorknob, determined now to rescue both son and bathroom from their unimaginable fates.

“Dad!” he shouted excitedly. “Don’t come in here!” He was growing more and more frantic with each sound of my pending approach.

“Why not, buddy?” I uttered weakly, gripped by terror and overwhelming helplessness.

His response will echo in my mind for years to come. He replied to my concern and fright as naturally and as exasperated as if I had asked him his name.

“I’m naked.”

I had not heard the shower nor smelled any semblance of soap or shampoo. Furthermore, as I slowly sauntered downstairs, I heard the telltale flush of the toilet. I flinched. As I reemerged in the living room, my wife stared, dumbfounded, demanding with her eyes for me to relay what horrors I had witnessed, no matter how tragically painful. When she could no longer bare my stupefied silence, she enquired…

“Well?”

“He’s naked.” What else could I say?

“What’s he doing?” I could see, reflected in my wife’s eyes, my own unholy imaginings.

“I… I don’t know… he’s just…. he’s… naked.” My voice grew stronger then, as the grim realization of the super-unknown set in, “He’s naked.”

To his credit, our oldest eventually came bounding loudly and clumsily down the stairs, as is his custom, fully dressed. We have promised ourselves, owing to our son’s lack of ability or desire to illuminate the situation, never to speak of this again.

It Never Ends

My father and I have a lot in common. We both have four children. I use the present tense to remind myself that, though three of my four are under the age of four, "the job," as I have come to refer to my status of dad, is never truly over.

My father-in-law brought this to my attention just after the birth of my younger son.

My wife and I have two of each, incidentally: two crazy, screaming, farting, giggling boys and two beautiful, adorable, wonderfully admiring little girls on the younger end. I no longer listen to those parenting veterans who try to warn me of the pitfalls of having two daughters, particularly so close in age as mine are. I have tired of the constant barrage of tales of teenage doom that seem to be the common response of those who learn that I am the father of females. My boys are nuts. That's it. That's all I can really say in the present. Do I believe that my girls will be given to wild emotional fits and hormonal rages of demonic proportions in their adolescence and subsequent years? Absolutely. But I live in the now. I can only comment on what is directly in front of me. And daily, I am met with a kind of primeval savagery and a host of bodily noises from the bodies, mouths and orifices of my boys.

But when my younger of the two sons was born, and I was (at the time) a brand new father in terms of infant care, my older son being the product of my wife's first marriage, I was visibly nervous as legions of visitors descended upon my wife, my newborn son and I in the hospital. Noticing my tension as yet another adoring relative felt compelled to handle the boy who was not yet twenty-four hours old, my father-in-law, one of the adoring visitors who had the insight to keep his distance, simply smiled compassionately at me and sighed "It never ends."

I knew immediately what he meant. I know that for the rest of my life, I will feel protective, proud, and at times afraid of these little people who continue to populate our home at a surprising, yet customarily Catholic rate. It really is the ultimate joke of nature that one enters into such a vocation with not so much as a signature or handshake, but rather with a few rare (and now fondly remembered) moments of privacy with his chosen mate. In such ecstasy, one does not consider the shortened meals and abbreviated sleep that will characterize the rest of his existence--the interrupted conversations, the constant worry and lack of peace that will punctuate his days.

And so a man such as I finds himself the unwitting player in the ultimate domestic farce. I am the bumbling, faltering, outrageously moronic "doofus:" the pretender to my own paternal throne. Parenthood, the most troubling and delicate of all professions, welcomes all applicants without so much as a training seminar or handbook. You simply try your best to emulate the closest approximation of fatherly wisdom and demeanor at your disposal. If the television supplies a less than attractive array of role models, why then you look to your own dad.

And so, I notice more and more the many ways in which I am constantly doing the very best impression of my own father that I can. I dance and dance, trying to convince both children and wife (who seems to have mastered this parenting thing without the slightest effort) that I know what I am doing. And through all of this, I am reminded that the job of shaping the lives and futures of these very dependent creatures never ends.

So... here we go.