Good doggy!

Saturday morning, a summer day.

My wife is out and I am at home with all three kids.

It is pleasant.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Daddy! The future horse doctor screamed.

The future wildlife film maker is covered in poo!

Whatthehellcouldshemeanandwhatthehellisgoingon

I dash to the source of the scream.

And Shitsake, so he was.

Looking guilty, doe eyed, and covered in crap.

It was everywhere.

How can a three year old little guy have so much shit all over him? I mean, it was down his legs, on his feet.

He was naked except for a soiled T-shirt.

It was retching time.

I gagged a couple of dry bile burps.

Then I acted swiftly and decisively, and with the minimum of contact (by prodding and waving with my fingers) I managed to herd him into the bathroom without actually touching him, and I got a shower going and him in it.

There were some shitty footprints en route to deal with later, and there had been a bit of finger contact getting the T-shirt over his head (triple gag), but he was in a stream of warm water and had an older sister to watch him, problem one was solved.

Then my attention moved to where his deposit would be.

This was not going to be easy or pleasant.

I moved gingerly downstairs, tip-toeing from room to room as though expecting to confront a burglar.

My middle daughter shadowing me, a disgusted grimace on her face. Boys!

My eldest daughter had left her post at the shower and upsettingly looked rather gleeful.

I sensed that delicious feeling kids get when there is kak on the go, and they are in the clear.  For a no-TV house, this was major entertainment.

We searched the house, we searched the garage, the searched the deck, the driveway.

Everywhere. Every room.

No poop. Anywhere.

But you could smell it badly. It was hiding somewhere for sure.

I was completely flummoxed.

I headed back to the shower where the fruit of my loins was luxuriating unperturbed in his steaming shower. He was having a ball.

I noticed that he had started drawing little soap motives on the glass of the shower door.

He didn’t seem to be experiencing a world of stress.

Listen little buddy, where did you poop little man.

I can’t find your poop anywhere.

Then he looked me square in the eye. Straight on.

No blinking or grimacing and he said what no loving father should ever hear.

Slowly, clearly and perfectly enunciated.

“I poo’d in your car daddy…”

I bolted down the stairs and towards the driveway.

The future vet had beaten me to the car though.

As I ran the final meters I saw her reach the car, look inside, and then turn around with her hand over her mouth doubling up.

Shitsake.

It was bad. It was terrible. It was confined to the driver’s seat.

My seat. The one I put my arse in each time I drive.

Godinheavenwhatwashethinking

That was a seriously satisfying bowl movement.

He must have lost a couple of kilograms right there and then had a little dance on it, painted a bit with it, and then finally squished it a bit more before wandering into the house.

My wife was completely unsympathetic on the phone.

I was on my own.

And then a gift from up above.

I glanced down at my ankles and who should be there but my old matey Sedgwick.

A reasonably disgusting Jack Russell with a penchant for poop.

And that my friends was that.

I popped him in, closed the door and headed upstairs to get the guilty party out of the shower.

Once he was done and dried and dressed I headed hopefully downstairs and out to the car.

A smiling, grinning, grunting little doggy face was at the window.

His entire body wagging with his tail in glee.

He had vacuumed up the entire load.

Good dog! Good boy! Come here daddy’s boy! Good doggy!

Good doggy!

Saturday morning, a summer day.

My wife is out and I am at home with all three kids.

It is pleasant.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Daddy! The future horse doctor screamed.

The future wildlife film maker is covered in poo!

Whatthehellcouldshemeanandwhatthehellisgoingon

I dash to the source of the scream.

And Shitsake, so he was.

Looking guilty, doe eyed, and covered in crap.

It was everywhere.

How can a three year old little guy have so much shit all over him? I mean, it was down his legs, on his feet.

He was naked except for a soiled T-shirt.

It was retching time.

I gagged a couple of dry bile burps.

Then I acted swiftly and decisively, and with the minimum of contact (by prodding and waving with my fingers) I managed to herd him into the bathroom without actually touching him, and I got a shower going and him in it.

There were some shitty footprints en route to deal with later, and there had been a bit of finger contact getting the T-shirt over his head (triple gag), but he was in a stream of warm water and had an older sister to watch him, problem one was solved.

Then my attention moved to where his deposit would be.

This was not going to be easy or pleasant.

I moved gingerly downstairs, tip-toeing from room to room as though expecting to confront a burglar.

My middle daughter shadowing me, a disgusted grimace on her face. Boys!

My eldest daughter had left her post at the shower and upsettingly looked rather gleeful.

I sensed that delicious feeling kids get when there is kak on the go, and they are in the clear.  For a no-TV house, this was major entertainment.

We searched the house, we searched the garage, the searched the deck, the driveway.

Everywhere. Every room.

No poop. Anywhere.

But you could smell it badly. It was hiding somewhere for sure.

I was completely flummoxed.

I headed back to the shower where the fruit of my loins was luxuriating unperturbed in his steaming shower. He was having a ball.

I noticed that he had started drawing little soap motives on the glass of the shower door.

He didn’t seem to be experiencing a world of stress.

Listen little buddy, where did you poop little man.

I can’t find your poop anywhere.

Then he looked me square in the eye. Straight on.

No blinking or grimacing and he said what no loving father should ever hear.

Slowly, clearly and perfectly enunciated.

“I poo’d in your car daddy…”

I bolted down the stairs and towards the driveway.

The future vet had beaten me to the car though.

As I ran the final meters I saw her reach the car, look inside, and then turn around with her hand over her mouth doubling up.

Shitsake.

It was bad. It was terrible. It was confined to the driver’s seat.

My seat. The one I put my arse in each time I drive.

Godinheavenwhatwashethinking

That was a seriously satisfying bowl movement.

He must have lost a couple of kilograms right there and then had a little dance on it, painted a bit with it, and then finally squished it a bit more before wandering into the house.

My wife was completely unsympathetic on the phone.

I was on my own.

And then a gift from up above.

I glanced down at my ankles and who should be there but my old matey Sedgwick.

A reasonably disgusting Jack Russell with a penchant for poop.

And that my friends was that.

I popped him in, closed the door and headed upstairs to get the guilty party out of the shower.

Once he was done and dried and dressed I headed hopefully downstairs and out to the car.

A smiling, grinning, grunting little doggy face was at the window.

His entire body wagging with his tail in glee.

He had vacuumed up the entire load.

Good dog! Good boy! Come here daddy’s boy! Good doggy!

The Bird’s & the Bee’s – PG

“Gross dad, do you mean you and mom have had sex more than once? That’s disgusting!”

“What those are for dad?”

Parents who bath with their kids are asking for trouble.

My own advice to any parents with young kids is as follows:

Never bath together. Ever. No matter how young they are.

Instil a Victorian sense of decorum to anything bathroom related.

Being naked in a bath with three year olds leads to all sorts of awkward questions:

What those are for dad?

Easy one buddy, they are Dad’s (reasonably good looking) nuts.

This quickly goes down hill as the dreaded pre-curser gets asked:  “What are they for?”

Soon you are at a dead end -“How do dads get the seeds into moms?”

This is when you submerge to rinse off the shampoo.

Seven years olds also can get their facts awkwardly mixed up, a few years ago, our now ten year old proudly understood that at birth the woman’s body had all the eggs she would use in her lifetime stored up and ready for release.

This was three decades sooner than her father understood this.

She also, via her mother and school, had a broad understanding that there was an act called sex.

However, she was under the impression that the mother got “topped up” once by the father, and in the same way eggs were regularly released, so too were the all important seeds.

One top up and you were good to go.

(A point that mothers the world over probably wish was true, no doubt.)

She was aghast to realise one day, after learning this was not the case and counting her siblings, that her parents had had sex at least three times.

With a disgusted face, she cringed out, “Gross dad, do you mean you and mom have had sex more than once? That’s disgusting!”

She was pretty upset about this. Her mother is probably starting to see it that way too.

(What the hell did she think they had done to earn an hour of TV with treats on Sunday mornings?)

Anyway, no more of this I should think.

Living in a rural area for a year has cleared all this up.

Our kids have now seen penises in all shapes and sizes.

Penises no longer raise the slightest interest.

Bulls, donkeys, mules and horses seem to live in a constant state of readiness.

My kids have seen goats, dogs, and even sheep having sex.

Cats on heat prowl around all night.

Chickens might be quick and forgo foreplay, but even they appear on the penis radar.

“Dad, the rooster is mating with Pamela Anderson (this is our chicken Pamela Anderson, and not THE Pamela Anderson), and her bum is all open and everything”

Gorgeous.

Followed by my then five year old daughter asking, “Shame, isn’t that sore?”

I am not kidding you when I tell you that when we were playing “the cloud game” a while ago, when one of my wife’s offspring said, “Look at that cloud, it looks like two goats mating”

More positive teaching comes in the form of the chickens and their eggs.

One of our chickens had 11 chicks hatch while the other hen, Mr Snuffles (hey, the kids chose the names), had been sitting on another 12 eggs for the past two weeks, and these also started hatching. This was very exciting and the kids made a lot of trips to the coop to check on progress, and at one stage we brought an egg inside for them to watch it hatch on the bed.

All very educational.

All good.

Also, with so many cute calves, sheep, goats and foals around, they are getting a very rounded and positive education.

One low point of note.

We had a very old decrepit dog called Sedgwick. Who smelled of faeces.

That is not the low point in itself.

The fact that we twice caught him trying to mate with our very startled six month old kitten, Cheetah was far more concerning.

It really happened.

I think this could safely be described as the low point in any dog’s life.

“Dad! Dad! Sedgwick is mating with cheetah”

And by golly gosh, so he was.

We even had time to get a photo to prove it.

This is sex education you can’t get in any school.

And I think I can safely assume that I will never have to broach the Birds & the Bees again.

I’ll Take Two Thank You...

Things went horribly wrong. With my wife and two of my children away over Easter I had planned to spend the time with my ten year old daughter doing some father-daughter quality-time activities and it was en route to one of these (a movie and ten-pin bowling) that it happened.

It went down something like this (although I can't swear to anything, as it happened pretty fast)

Sharp eyed 10 year Daughter: "Look dad, there's a pet shop."
Responsible Father: (no comment)
Doe eyed daughter: "Awe, please can I get a hamster?"
Responsible Father: "No my love" (your mom will kill us)

Ten year old boy stuck inside father’s body: "Hey that could be cool. No, - bad idea. Hey that could be cool. No, - bad idea. Hey that could be cool"
Shocked Daughter: "Thanks dad, I didn't think you would stop."
Responsible Father: (Slightly surprised to actually find himself parked outside a pet shop) "We're just going to have a look my love"

Ten year old boy stuck inside father’s body: "Wow. Cool pet shop. Look rabbits!"

We ended up in front of the hamster cages and I was thinking that, “Wow, for ten Rand they ARE cheap.”
I thought that one would sell for at least twenty Rand. So obviously I, the adult and father then said: "Lets take two. A male and a female. Then they can mate"
I mean it seemed kind of cool at the time and not such a bad idea.

I should probably have been concerned that the shop assistant smelled of booze. But it was Easter and I figured well, drunk or not, he knew more than I did about sexing hamsters.
"How old are these?” I ask
“About two weeks old," says he of the spirit breath.
Just little babies, half a year away from breeding. They'll be dead long before then. My kids will squash em, or drown em, or lose em long before then.

42 year old father in charge of pocket money: "We want a male and female please"

Here's the thing. He looked so very confident. Drunk as he was, and we were leaning well back to get out of range of his acrid breath, he looked so competent and confident. He stared knowingly at their non existent genitals, prodded some flesh apart with his fingers, and dropped a male and female into a box.

Then he conned me into buying sawdust, food, water dispensers, food bowls, and little orange MSG hamster snacks (which looked surprisingly tasty, but, truth be told, when I experimentally ate one it tasted like cardboard)

And that was it. Deal done. We skipped the movie. We skipped the bowling. We headed happily home with the hamsters and spent an enjoyable hour or two digging an old hamster cage out of storage and turning it into a cosy and warm nest complete with sawdust and MSG nibble snacks.

She: "This one looks pregnant dad"
Me (patronising): "Hamsters are all fat my love. She's too small to be pregnant, but maybe one day she will have babies"

We go to sleep a warm and loving house. I am definitely too scared to phone the news through to my wife in person, and instead send off a short good night SMS mentioning two new hamsters. I get no response.

Now. This is the true part. Without guile or exaggeration.

The next morning the fat two-week old baby had had five babies and was a proud mother.
Without the compounding of time for the sake of a good story. One setting and rising of the sun.
When we woke up the next morning we had seven hamsters and not two.

My daughter was very excited and went straight off to phone her mom with the good news.
Me, not so. I was keeping away from my phone and I was starting to think this may not have been such a good idea after all.

The next night as we were about to go to sleep, my daughter, having spent half her evening examining the blind, pink and ugly brood, came and told me that the other hamster, the dad hamster, the father hamster, the male hamster, was making a nest, and not only that, but his breasts were swollen as well.

Silly irritating child. She spends too much of her time talking to the fairies.

The next day. Day two since we bought male and female baby hamsters. Less than 48 hours after having left the pet shop. The father hamster, the dad, the male. He of the swollen breasts. Well, he decided to have babies too. And not just one either. Six of them. Gospel truth. Not a lie in there. Cross my heart.

Pinkie promise. In two days we had gone from two hamsters to thirteen hamsters.

And that was my saving grace. That was why my wife let me live when she got back. It was that bad, and that unbelievable, it was that shocking, that it was funny.

Epilogue:

The children’s mother got back and immediately decided that the next day we were taking all the babies back to the pet shop. The children’s father hid out pottering in the shed.

That evening the children’s father experimentally snuck one of the babies out the cage and fed it to the snake (this is our actual pet snake that eats live mice). He figured that he was saving fifty bucks on petrol going to buy mice for the snake, and that these hamsters were going back to the pet shop anyway and nobody would notice one or two missing in the rush. However the next morning his sharp eyed children spotted that one was missing and the children’s father was forced to secretly run into the garden, dig up some earth, drop some flowers on the mound, and confirm that one had died and that he had buried it (fingers crossed, even though the dying part was true).
That left 12.

The children’s quite cross mother took ten back to the pet shop. (Actually the pet shop was still closed when she got there so she left all ten with the rather intimidated owner of the liquor store next door and sternly instructed him to give them to the pet shop owner when he got in)
That left 2.

Within a day, one had escaped and has never been seen since.
That left 1.

The next day, the final one, got out the cage. It was caught by the cat, who brought it downstairs to play with its kill. Then it was taken away from the cat, by the dog, and was found wet and half dead in the mouth of the dog by my six year old daughter. In tears, she brought it to me, gasping convulsively in her hand. I explained to her that the hamster must have fallen down the stairs and badly injured itself, and the dog was trying to save its life by bringing it to us it its mouth. (Fingers crossed) We wrapped it warmly in loo paper (double ply) and left it comatose in a shoe box next to our bed close to the wall heater. It made lots of shuffling sounds in the night. In the morning it was as stiff as a plank.
That left none.

Last Wednesday I went to buy baby mice for the snake to eat. They didn’t have any, and rather than waste the trip I came home with a smallish white rat. Not small enough though.

It was too big for the snake to eat, so we put it into the hamsters’ cage.

We still have the rat and I can send you a photo if you don’t believe me.
Moral of the story:

Never give any responsibility or a wallet to a 42 year old man with a 10 year old boy trapped inside his body.