Grey, in his 22-month-old wisdom, has decided that the bath is the perfect place to go number two. He did it a few days ago when Alisa was bathing him, and this morning he did it yet again, this time under my supervision.
I’ve seen Caddy Shack and knew exactly what to do — I sounded the alarm, evacuated and drained the tub in a mild frenzy, and then meticulously sanitized it, gingerly removing the little larval confections, each lovingly wrapped in a wipe. In transit to the john, I was careful to support them evenly and avoid squeezing to maintain structural integrity. This, I thought, is fatherly devotion. We resumed the bath and not five minutes later, he delivered an encore, loudly announcing, “look, Daddy, look! All done. Out please.”
This is clearly no longer accident. Maybe Grey enjoys watching me clean. Or perhaps he thinks the tub offers all the advantages of a water birth — zero gravity, smoother delivery, greater comfort. I will ask him after his nap.