While I support my son in his choice not to wear underwear, I do not support his choice in where to stash it.
It’s not even that he’s hiding his mistakes—trust me on this one. I am the official Morgan Street butt wiper. Before entering the bathroom, he’ll look at me in much the same way Robert Di Niro looks at Ben Stiller in Meet the Fockers,
“Remember, when I call you, you have to come wipe my butt.”
“Hey, it’s what I live for,” I often reply.
“Good.” and he’s off to make stool.
If Kenny’s life had a soundtrack, it would be the Shin’s “I’m Never Going to Wipe My Butt.”
This morning, I found his Spider Man boxers crumpled up on top of my hairbrush. Last week, it was Scooby Doo in the Lego ® box. What’s next? “Tighty-whities” in the snack drawer?
In retrospect, these events are hysterical. In real time, they can be a little harder to laugh at. When it’s 10 o’clock at night and all little Thompsons should be asleep, I do not want to be told to wipe anyone’s butt nor do I want to hear a little Austin Powers pipe, “Yeah, baby, yeah!” while I’m doing it.
Someday I’ll miss this, I know. Having a grown “baby” of nineteen years and a true baby of nineteen months, I know all too well how quickly time passes. When they’re little, they’re little problems and when they’re bigger they’re, well, you know . . .
This White Trash Moment was brought to you today by the letters T, M, and I (too much information). Until next time.
I think I just heard the toilet flush.
