Stay at Home Writer

*I wrote the following essay as a sample of what I am capable of as a newspaper/magazine columnist. Feel free to forward this and my contact info to any publishers or editors you may know. My wife would appreciate it if I could generate some income this decade.

Moments ago, I sat down to write an essay about the ups and downs of pet ownership. I was feeling inspired (and a slight stinging sensation) after having my hand bitten—again—by our pet bird Chi-Chi, a parakeet who apparently didn’t get the memo about not biting the hand that feeds him. I had just typed the title to this future masterpiece when I was interrupted by the ear-splitting screams of righteous indignation coming from my three-year-old son Truman—a phenomenon more common than parakeet pecks and often much more painful. I set aside my laptop, meted out some swift justice to Tru and his older brother Alex (the party who frequently claims to be the victim, but more often than not is the victimizer), and settled back into my work station/easy chair to resume writing. But the moment was gone. The pain from the bird-bite had dissipated, as did my inspiration to write about my feathered and furry friends. I’ll admit that I was tempted to pack it in and postpone writing until the boys’ bedtime, but I decided instead to write this piece about a day in the life of a writer/stay at home dad.

Just while I was typing the above paragraph, several distractions occurred that would derail most professional writers. The phone rang while I was responding to yet another domestic dispute, causing me to threaten Truman with a great deal of bodily discomfort if he refused to cease his screeching long enough for me to say, “Hello.” As I greeted the caller, he resumed his caterwauling, which forced me to repeat my initial cordial “hello” with a more irritated one. The caller turned out to be a telemarketer, a fact that removed any guilt I may have had for sounding particularly rude. She wanted me to pass along a message to my wife Bethany that her eyeglass prescription was now expired and that she should come in to get new glasses as soon as possible. First of all, I didn’t know glasses had an expiration date. Do they get all brown and mushy like bananas or are they no longer legally valid after two years like, say, a driver’s license? I was tempted to ask the caller these questions, but opted instead for the old stand-by, “I’ve got a screaming kid here. You understand. Have a nice day.” Click. Minutes later, another squabble ensued as did another phone call—this time from Bethany, who was “just checking in to see how everything was going.” I kept my response short and sweet, which she correctly interpreted as “It sounds like you’re busy.” She was right of course. She usually is. Oops, I mean she always is.

Although my kids can derail the creativity train that runs within me at the drop of a hat, or the taking of a toy, they provide me with a wealth of material to write about—if ever I can find the time. Take this morning for example. I was drifting in and out of sleepyland at about eight o’ clock, dreaming about peeing in the Pope’s Jacuzzi (I wish I was making this up, but it is unfathomably true) when I heard the toilet lid go up in the master bathroom. I pried open an eye in time to see Tru getting on the potty like a big boy. I was pleased to notice him dabbing a stray droplet or two off the rim with a square of toilet paper. What a conscientious little fella! When he finished, I instructed him to get a clean pair of underwear from his room, which he set out to do without argument. I was a proud papa.

Moments later, Tru returned to inform me that he couldn’t find any underwear in his dresser, and so I begrudgingly crawled out of bed—an unheard of act for a dad who is accustomed to staying in bed and “watching” TV with his kids in the early morning hours (until Sesame Street is over at the very least.) I dug up a pair of skivvies that were as yet unpacked from a bag of clean laundry following a week’s vacation and put them on my curiously smelly child. No sooner had I pulled up the Thomas the Train tighty-whities, than I spotted the source of the offending odor. An instantly recognizable brown streak was making its way from Truman’s nether-region to his ankles. I sprang into action, fully awake, putting aside all thoughts of how I would explain to the Pope why his hot tub was defiled and ran at a dead sprint with filthy child in hand to the bathroom.

Upon re-entry into the bathroom, I flipped on the light. The horror! My first thought was something along the lines of how relieved the Pope would be that I didn’t do that to his Jacuzzi. Poo was everywhere, and I don’t mean the Winnie-the-Pooh sheets, jammies, and toys that were scattered about the house. Real, non-Disney poo. I set Tru on his feet in the middle of the room and like a CSI detective, I began to piece together what had happened. Judging by the brown streak on the side of the tub, Tru must have leaned against it as he stripped off his diaper, which was protruding from the trashcan like a brown and white flag of surrender. From there, the trail led to the toilet where it became apparent that the boy had not been dabbing a few drops of pee that errantly landed on the rim. If only. Instead, as he hoisted himself up to the seat, he very obviously smeared a British Petroleum sized slick all over the commode.
I peeled off his fresh underwear only to find that it was—not so fresh anymore. I began to clean up the bathroom fixtures while my patient but stinky child stood motionless and eerily emotionless in the middle of the floor. He seemed to be completely unaffected by the whole affair, unlike his father who was alternately gagging and holding his breath while depleting the disappointingly limited supply of wet wipes in a vain effort to remove the now tacky substance from the boy’s, well, boy parts. The only remaining course of action was a hasty shower, one that left no time for proper preparation or the securing of a washcloth. That unfortunate fact left me no choice but to use soap, water, and my bare hands to extricate the thoroughly stuck-on poo from Truman’s little “peanut butt” as his mama calls it—a cute name for a portion of his personage that was anything but cute at that moment.

After some serious scrubbing, Tru was his old self again. I sent him back to watch his cartoons while I took a shower that I hoped was hot enough to sterilize my hands and burn away the nauseating memories from my mind. I guess I only succeeded on one of those fronts. And for that I’m somewhat glad. Without these types of experiences to draw upon, I would have very little to write about. Oh, I could make stuff up and call myself a novelist, but in regards to my life I’ve found that the truth is much more entertaining than fiction.