So, yesterday afternoon was sort of busy. The Boys had their first “soccer practice.” The Wife signed them up for soccer lessons with this local soccer academy (because the town we live in does its soccer bass-ackwards and you have to sign up in January to be able to participate in spring/summer soccer. And get this, unlike in the rest of the civilized soccer playing parts of America where soccer is a fall sport, it’s spring/summer in our town. Go figure) for their final three weeks of the session.
However, Slash being the stubborn pain in the you-know-what, refused to go play in the younger kid group (ages 3 and 4) and forced us to let him play with Axl’s group, which was 5 to 7 year-olds (and I use the term “play” loosely, it was all drills and skills). As I sat there in my canvas folding chair, sweating my balls off, I had a glimpse into the next 10-15 years of my life.
But they had a great time, and then we went home, had a little ice cream, and then it was off to Wegmans for me and the Boys (The Wife stayed home to nurse The Rocket Queen. I’m not saying The Rocket Queen nurses all day every day or anything, but I’m not saying she doesn’t either. Plus, The Wife has become a mega-germaphobe, so she doesn’t want to take The Rocket Queen out in public, or at least Wegmans, until she’s about 13). So we pile into the Tour Bus and head to Wegmans. As we walk up to the front of the store, there’s an older man (he looked like he could be anywhere from 55-70) standing outside, smoking a cigarette:
Axl: (pointing at the man and speaking in his usual loud voice) Daddy look, that man is smoking. Gross!
Me: I know, yucky, right?
The man looks at us:
Axl: He’s going to die, right?
Me: (a little nervously) Um, maybe.
Axl: But I thought you said that smoking kills you?
Me: It does.
Axl: So he’s going to die.
Me: Hopefully not right now.
Slash: (holding his nose) I don’t want to smell it. Yucko, yucko, YUCKO!
We made it through Wegmans without further incident. In the late afternoon/early evening, we took The Boys to the Father-in-law’s golf club so they could hit some balls with him, ride in a golf cart, and we could eat at their Sunday night barbecue. Putting aside that I always feel one of the dudes from Caddyshack who doesn’t quite belong there, it was pretty uneventful until about midway through dinner:
Slash: Daddy, I have to go to the potty.
Me: Ok Slash, let’s go.
I take him to this really nice bathroom inside and I start to lift the toilet seat for him so he can pee:
Slash: No Daddy, I have to poop AND pee.
Me: Oh, okay, sorry about that.
Now, Slash doesn’t usually sit right on the toilet seat because he usually takes care of this business at home and sits on one of his little potty seats that sits on top of the regular seat. But he parks himself on the seat and holds on to the side (which was far less gross than at soccer practice, when we went into the public bathroom at the park so he could pee and he ended up grabbing the edge of the toilet bowl after he and g-d knows who else peed all over it, only to find out that there was no soap in the bathroom) and drops the deuce. We wash hands and walk back to our table, which is outside on a covered patio, surrounded by lovely looking people who are all enjoying their dinner and cocktails in relative peace and quiet until:
Slash: (running into the Mother-in-Law’s arms and speaking in his regular rock concert loud voice) Tata, I made a HUGE POOP!
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