Big Daddy Paul

Hanging out with Malcolm is pretty cool, most of the time. We have adventures, play lots of baseball, and talk about things like, “John Bowker has a pickle for a head!” There are also times when, ahem, I like him less. Actually that’s a bit understated. There are times when I wish Malcolm was a dog we could chain to the fence in the back yard. Lately, I have noticed exactly when and where I feel this way, and I will relate them to you today.

First, I do not enjoy being around Malcolm when he talks about butts. I believe he knows this, and he brings out the anal chatter whenever he wants to push my buttons. The problem is, the more reaction he gets, the further down the gastrointestinal tract he goes. He’s like a stand up comedian in that respect. The absolute worst for me is when he tells me he is going to put me in his butt. I know that it’s a silly comment and I should not fear being shoved up Malkie’s pooper, but for some reason it really ticks me off. The worst part is that my diatribes sound so funny when I counsel against him doing it in the future, “If you EVER say that you are going to put me in your butt and fart me into a box again…..”

I also am pretty terrified of being out in public with Malcolm when it is past his bedtime. Like all kids, Malcolm is pretty rotten when he is tired and overstimulated. It won’t matter if you have been out and had the best day together, once his bedtime comes and goes and he is not in bed, he will turn into a bizarre alien, complete with him licking my arms, murmuring jibberish and every whine BECOMING APPROXIMATELY TEN DECIBELS TOO LOUD. He will also spend a lot of time talking about his butt, so it’s often a double whammy for me. The witching hour isn’t a time when a big bootied green lady is at her most powerful, it’s when a preschooler is out past bedtime.

I have considered your offer to change out of my pajamas and have the counter for you to consider: Eat my butt!

I have also realized that I find negotiating with Malcolm quite taxing. Most of the time, when you ask Malcolm whether he wants to do or eat something, he doesn’t just say “yes” or “no,” he brings a counter offer to the table. I submitted an offer to buy an investment property this week, and it was less complex and time consuming than negotiating with Malcolm over how many crackers he got to eat on the way home from his tee ball game on Tuesday night. Perhaps it is because the seller in the real estate transaction can’t whine and scream and throw things at you. Malcolm is an extremely hard bargainer, and he knows if he wants 10 of something, he better start the bidding at 20. As a former lawyer, I am impressed with his shrewd instincts and clever thinking, but as a dad, I am annoyed.  If you would have said that I would have a tougher time bargaining with my four year old than I did while negotiating contracts with multinational companies, I would have said you were crazy. Now, I am the crazy one.

So, the pickens are getting a bit slim around here. That means you all need to figure out what about your lives is bothering you and fire me a question. (The link is on the left.) If you don’t, I’ll start answering Malcolm’s questions, and trust me, no one has the time for that.

Amy from Oakland asks: At what age do children wipe their own butts?

I really care about this question. Why, you ask? Every time Malcolm poops, he screams as loud as he can, “DADDY WILL YOU COME WIPE MY BUTT?” Then it is my duty to stop whatever I am doing and then go clean up his dirty bits. I am not fond of either performing this act, or his ordering me to do it. I would love for him to start cleaning himself and give me a small amount of dignity back.

He can't wipe his butt, but he sure can milk a plastic cow!

Having done some internet research and found that there are seven-year-olds who aren’t wiping themselves, but three-year-olds that are, I have determined that it is not the age of the child that is important, it is the desire of the parents. (By the way, never do a google search on “old butt wiping,” and never, ever click on four or five of the links. You’d be shocked at what’s on the internet!) Armed with this knowledge, I am going to teach Malcolm how to wipe himself and then be done with it. I am squarely behind any parenting technique that involves me having less to do.

Anonymous asks: Why do I take out my ear buds when I want to ogle women at the gym?

Good question, Brad. Although I haven’t seen the inside of a gym for a few years, I am a relative scholar when it comes to the subject of ogling women. Men are simple creatures, and when a beautiful female is present, straight men are capable of performing only one task. Thus, if a man is ogling, he cannot do simple things like listen to music, read or even finish a sentence. Hence, your ear bud removal. If you plan on ogling regularly, please review my rules for engagement in this post.

Scott in Reno asks: Can we attach a picture to a comment?

No, this is mainly because my throngs of adoring fans would constantly be sending in pictures of their children wiping their own butts. For some reason, my fans like to stick it to me. I have heard, though, that a picture is worth a thousand words, so instead of inserting a picture into the comment, draft a thousand word essay on the pictures and post it as a comment. It will get the job done.

There comes a special time in every parent’s life when their child becomes potty trained and you can officially tell the diaper companies to go screw themselves. For us, it happened when Malcolm was about 3 years and 2 months old. If that seems a little late to you, it is because we don’t like touching feces and did not want to push Malcolm into anything he wasn’t ready for. We (Amy) decided that we would wait until he told us that he was ready to wear big boy underpants and use the potty. To entice him into this transformation, we slyly inserted questions into conversations that he had positive associations with: “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor? Do want to wear your big boy underpants?” Or: “Let’s go eat donuts, wanna go potty first?” For the longest time, his answers were almost always, “No!” until one day he said, “Yes!” His answer was, “Yes” every day after that, and we had a grand total of one accident during the transition. Both Amy and I were happy that the road to potty-trainingville was not soiled with human waste.

Chief among Malcolm's reasons for wanting to be potty trained: scalp irritation.

Until recently. In the past week, we have had two incidents whereby Malcolm has soiled himself. The first took place at school (luckily!) and involved Malcolm pooping all over himself in what his teachers referred to as a slight case of “heat stroke.” The second incident occurred when we conducted a little experiment to see if Malcolm would feel safe if we turned off his nightlight. (He woke up shrieking bloody murder and then pissed himself, so it’s safe to say that the nightlight will continue to burn brightly in his room for some time to come.)

I am not concerned that he is regressing but I still wonder whether we can honestly say he is potty trained. The reason I ask is that he will attending camps this summer and a new preschool next year and I wonder whether I need to disclaim his recent mishaps.

Q: How old is your child? A: 4.

Q: Is your child potty trained? A: Yes, except when having a heat stroke. Or, when scared shitless. (Literally!)

I guess this level of honesty could be quite refreshing. Sure, there have been times when control over my own bodily functions is a bit suspect, and I guess those around me deserve to know what they might be in store for. (The best advice I can give is to not stand near me whenever I am in the great state of Nevada.) I could also see the utility around old people, who might do a service to others by wearing large buttons that say, “If I have been eating popcorn or eggs, stand back!!!” Then again a little discretion might work too. I’ll probably just mark, “Yes” on the applications for summer camps.