Victoria's Festive Toilet

The twins are potty trained. Have been for a while, but I didn't want to tell you that. It was my plan to milk it for a long time, making the occasional cryptic comment like, "The girls graduated college today, their robes barely showing the bulge of their pull-ups," but then I wouldn't be able to post about Victoria's Festive Toilet. And that would be sad. I don't want anyone to be sad.

Victoria's Festive Toilet isn't the beginning of our story. It's the middle, wedged between a seizure and a trip to the emergency room. Be patient.

The day started at 6 AM.

"Sheeshur."

Kathryn's seizures have gotten longer. It takes her longer to recover. She often slurs her words.

Kathryn came in and sat in my bed, taking the spot where Sharon usually sleeps. Sharon wasn't there. She was in Florida for business, although it's still unclear to me exactly what business. The woman edits dictionaries, for crying out loud. Had there been some discovery, some outbreak of new English words she needed to investigate? My wife's world is a mystery to me. I looked at Kathryn. The left side of her face was slack, drooping lower than the right. This happens sometimes. The effect is not unlike those before and after shots advertising tacky plastic surgeons. It is not easy to look at.

Kathryn slurred more words. Only half of her mouth seemed to be speaking. I told her I didn't understand. She repeated the words with effort and it still sounded like nothing. I shook my head and apologized. I felt like the world's worst dad.

"Yong," she said, emphasizing the word with frustration.

"Long?" I tried. She nodded. "It was a long one?"

"Yesh."

She folded into my arms the way sleepy children do and I laid her down on the empty pillow. I lay next to her and listened to her breathe. We stayed there until the twins awoke. I know Kathryn never slept because she never moved.

And that was how the day began.

One thing Sharon did before she left for her "conference," besides pack a bathing suit and some sunscreen, was enroll the girls in a week of day camp. It was an extravagant gesture on her part--three kids mean three tuitions--but she said if I didn't let her do it, she wouldn't come back from her trip. "I don't want to be the one to discover your body," she explained. The camp was only in the mornings, just enough time for me to unload the dishwasher and load it back again, but on this day, it was even shorter than that. Mid-morning, the director of the camp called me. Victoria, caught up in the excitement of the day, the director informed me, had crapped her pants. Would I be so kind as to come there and change her, she wondered. I was tempted to say I was busy and suggest the director call my wife instead, but I was afraid Sharon wouldn't hear her cell phone ringing over the crashing waves and seagulls. So to day camp I went.

However, it wasn't Victoria that greeted me when I arrived at the building. It was Lila. A screaming Lila. Keep that in mind, because that will come up again later in the story.

Victoria had locked herself in a stall in the girl's bathroom. She had been in there since the director called me. "I think she's embarrassed," the director said. This woman should never be allowed to supervise children. Victoria could march through town leading the Fourth of July parade with a dump in her pants the size of Central America and be completely unconcerned. It wasn't that. It was the Festive Toilet.

When she heard my voice, Victoria unlocked the stall. "Look, Daddy! I took care of it," she exclaimed proudly, holding up hands that showed more brown than white. Her pants were around her ankles. Her panties were, too. She had been taking fistfuls of toilet paper, swiping them through her pants, throwing them into the toilet, then going back for more paper. At no point did she tear any of the paper off the roll, which left great loops of brown and white streamers dangling over the sides of the bowl. It looked decorated, like somebody was planning a potty-themed birthday party. Or welcoming home a beloved turd after a long absence.

To preserve her dignity, I won't tell you how much of her own poop she smeared upon herself during this process, except to say all of it.

Lila spent the majority of the time needed to clean her sister, the stall, the floor, and then myself, sitting outside the bathroom wailing in pain. Just before I had arrived, I was told, she had gotten her finger slammed in a door. A staff member had been holding ice on it for a while as I cleaned Victoria, but at some point that person had simply drifted away. And as I was using a wet paper towel to try to get the feces out of the treads of Victoria's sneakers, I realized Lila had drifted away as well.

I found her in a classroom, unattended and whimpering. Her finger, which had looked red and swollen when I came in, was now looking like a bratwurst. Cue the emergency room.

We didn't drive straight to the ER; we went past our pediatrician's office first. I had decided I was probably not in the best mental state to decide if this finger required the hell-on-earth that is an ER visit. The doctor looked at the finger for less than a minute. "Keep on driving," she said. "I'm pretty sure that's broken." So on we drove, Lila's middle finger swelling up in the exact same gesture I was mentally making at the world.

Lila was a champ at the ER. Why wouldn't she be? She was the star of the show. Victoria, however, became less and less enthusiastic about the hospital as she watched her twin talk to doctors, get a bracelet, and suck down painkillers. By the time Lila went for x-rays, Victoria was looking for a door to slam her own middle finger into. Finding none, she had to content herself with throwing herself to the floor, hoping for a head injury.

The finger turned out not to be broken, just badly sprained. Lila wore a splint on the finger for four days afterward. By the second day, the swelling had gone down, and the day the splint came off, she made a very tentative fist, slowly morphing her four-day bird-flip into a fight-the-power salute. And then she had to give back her gold medal.

Looking back on that day, now a week ago, it plays like one of those themed movies in which different directors shoot different, unconnected scenes all with the same cast. There was the sentimental childhood-illness tearjerker, the madcap scatological comedy, and then the fast-paced emergency-room TV drama. And, if you can believe it, it all took place before nap time.

But not long before nap time.

Comments

[Liesel Elliott]

If this is how your Summer begins, you have nowhere to go but up. And how may I ask, do you manage to avoid the emergency psychiatric breakdown that would certainly follow such a series of unfortunate events, if they had happened to me?

[jonny's mommy]

Oh wow. I hope your wife really appreciated you after all of this.

That totally sucks for you.

And I'm keeping Kathryn in prayer. I think of her often and how hard this all must be for your family.

I guess the twins can give some in between funny moments.

The new header is funny!

[Bennie]

That has to be the best blog post I have ever read. Dude, you are one talented writer! And the photo at the end was the exclamation mark.

[Brian]

Many many thanks, all. I only wish I could say the post was an exaggeration. In fact, if anything, I understated some of the trauma. Like I completely left out the part where, at the hospital, Victoria sat on the toilet and, as she peed, she pushed in her belly to get a better view, subsequently peeing in her shorts. Can somebody remind me again why we potty train these kids?

[Sam]

One middle finger up for the staff at the camp, huh?

[JB]

This may be the best blog post I have ever read. I'm sorry such unhappy events led to you writing it. But 10 minutes after reading it I am still laughing out loud. Thanks

[Rattling the Kettle]

On the bright side, you got a great new header image out of it!

[Lori]

When I saw the header I thought "There HAS to be a story here!" then I read, and felt all emotionally torn up thinking about Kathryn's seizures and all that you all are learning to deal with... then came the poop story and I howled with laughter... and then.. the ER?? wow. What a day. What a great post.

I babysat my 2 1/2 year old twin nephews and their 1 year old sister Friday night. I consider myself extremely lucky that there were no emergencies (bathroom or otherwise)... Those kids are GREAT but they sort of act as a form of birth control in my mind...

[Nicole]

I'm exhausted just reading this.

[lfm]

You. Are. A. Trooper. My goodness, I would've quit at the point when Kathryn was laying down next to you. You're a really good dad!

[Vikki]

Wow. I hope you had a watermelon mojito after that ordeal. Actually, maybe a whole pitcher of them...without all that pesky watermelon juice and lime.

[danielle-lee]

Oh my! That is so funny, I don't know what to do with myself! You have your hands full! They are precious! Glad everything turned out okay.
Festive toilet!!! LMAO!

Poor Kathryn. Poor girl. I totally feel for her. Is she okay?

[loren]

If the twins are potty trained, that means I must follow through this time and get my girls pooping regularly not on themselves or in front of the patio door. Bummer.

[Anne Prince]

Hey! It's Tuesday!! Where is our Monday drink receipe damnit!!!! ;-)

[Brian]

Anne, How did I know you'd be the first to remind me of this. Your drink recipe is in the crapper, right next to all the other things I thought I'd accomplish yesterday.

[Mikhela]

so did they go back to camp?

[KK]

Thanks for the laugh. Kinda puts my position as Chief Turd Dislodger & Launcher into perspective. CTD&L, you know when it's so large it leadens upon impact to the bowl & no amount of flushing will send it upon it's merry way...
Gotta love little boys.

[Jonathan's Mum]

Dude ... I'm speechless. When you get slammed, you really get slammed. I'm just stunned. Poor Kathryn. Poor Twins. Poor You. Great post though!

[Polly]

So, first off ditto all the raves from all the above folks (Kay, Coleen, Margie, Joy, Victoria, you know, all their raves). If we lived in a stae-sponsored socialist society, I would stage a sit-in at the drab, grey governmental buildings and insist that you be paid an annual salary to do this. For the public good. If for no other reason but to keep peoples' spirits up that they're not you.

And second off (I may be a bit touchy here, but) shit fire! Leaving poopapalooza to her own devices on the one hand, and then Lila, injured on the other? Well, on her other hand. These people gotta pay a little closer attention to their wee charges, if you ask me. Or rather, charge you less. Or better yet, send YOU to camp, on them, next week. After Sharon gets home. Camp Whassamatta You, whatever. Where they serve cocktails at noon. You deserve it, bra.

[Tracey]

I really don't think The Mom should be allowed to attend any more conferences. Especially not if they involve day camp.

[selftraining]

I'm so impressed by you- by your ability to care for your children and write such amazing stories. My twins are 4.5 months old now and I'm back to work part-time. I wish I could stay home with them (most of the time) and I wonder...how are things with your wife? Was it hard deciding who would work and who would stay home? Does she resent you? Do you resent her?

[Angela]

I haven't been around for a while so I'm catching up on your posts, this one is so hilarious, minus the tears, pain and sprained finger.