“Son of a bitch.”

About an hour in, Meg has yet to complete her first Rainbow Loom bracelet. Leanne has since moved on to other Christmas presents.

“You do realize that Leanne’s friend Luke made her, like, one a day for a week, right?”

“This is going to end up on Facebook, isn’t it?”
“Oh sweet merciful crap yes.”

Two minutes earlier…

“What about this for an idea for Leanne’s Christmas party at school? I take some white styrofoam cups, draw snowman faces on them, put them in a pyramid–”

Now at this point, I’m picturing a vertical pyramid. As if each child got their own multi-layer snowman to take home. Sounds kinda neat right? I should take this opportunity to remind my faithful readers that Meg did, in fact, graduate from Villanova’s School of Business.

“… and the kids can throw cotton balls into them.”
“I don’t get it, how– hang on, are you playing beer pong with a bunch of kindergarteners?”

Annnnnnd there’s that college degree in action.

“Well, no. It’s supposed to be throwing snowballs.”
“Yeah, but, and I know it’s been a while since I’ve played me some beer pong, I’m pretty damn sure that’s beer pong. I mean, sure, there’s no beer — there is no beer right? just checkin’ — there’s no beer, but these kids are going to go home and tell their parents about their party and effectively describe beer pong.”
“Just… god damnit Jay. <rubs temples> Do you think it’d be fun?”
“Is it… is it called Snowball Pong?”

I thought about the American Horror Story episode I had paused in the basement and worked through all possible answers that led me to ending this moment as quickly as possible.

“Hard to say. As a game concept–”

Clearly, I failed miserably at choosing the shortest possible path towards resuming my night.

“– as a game concept, I think beer pong kinda sucks. It’s hard to say because I’m normally blasted off my ass when I play.”

She gave me that look that said I wasn’t leaving until she had a real answer. It said quite a few other things as well, but trying to put that look to words would be akin to someone reading from the Necronomicon.

“Ok, real answer,” our hero replied with a growing sense of fear, “I’m worried that cotton balls won’t fly correctly.”
“I thought about that too, so I figured I’d bring ping pong balls as back up.”
“So wait, lemme get this straight–”

So now I’m back in the basement, which is where I wanted to be in the first place.

I’ve had chronic headaches for over six months now. My physician is out of ideas and is sick of seeing me, so he’s sending me around to just about every specialist he can think of. The only thing he’s ruled out is pregnancy, and that’s only because between board games, video games, and comics, I’ve regressed so far back into virginity that I’ve actually grown a hymen.

Today’s visit was with a neurologist.

“What you’re describing may be tension headaches. Are you under any excessive stress at work or in your home life?”
“My son shit on the floor this morning.”
“I think we’re done here.”

I should quit my job and write advertising for contraceptives.

This morning at around 6:45am, Meg was drying her hair and I was trying to will myself out of bed. When she turned off the dryer, I heard that Austin was screaming his head off. It sounded like he’d been at it for a while, which surprised me since normally the girl would have wandered in pissed off that he disturbed her beauty sleep.

Why didn’t I hear him over the monitor? It was giving off some weird static last night, so Meg just turned it off. It’s amazing the difference between the first and second child. If the monitor started to misbehave when Leanne was young, Meg would have slept outside of her room with her ear literally pressed against the door while I pursued an engineering degree online and fashioned a new one out of spare phone chargers and a potato until we could buy a new one the next day. With Austin, the moment it starts to act up, we not only shut it off, but actively get pissed at him for the inconvenience of having to expose an arm to the cold air outside of the blankets.

Sadly, that’s not the real story here. He was screaming pretty loudly, so I decided to go see what’s wrong. Keep in mind the proper mental image here. I’m going straight from bed and walking 30 feet down the hall to the boy’s room.

I open the door to find his sleep blanket draped over the side of his crib. Not the best omen, but not all together a surprise these days either. Next to it, also hanging over the side of the crib, are his pajamas.

At this point, even my coffee-deprived brain can do simple math. There weren’t many layers left between, let’s just put it mildly and call it “between Austin and the world.”

Sure enough, sitting on the floor in front of the crib is Austin’s diaper. Sitting on the floor — the carpeted floor — next to the diaper, are the contents of Austin’s diaper.