Post by Ijon the Asano on Jun 9, 2013 23:39:39 GMT -5
Or as my son would say, 「何だよ、父ちゃん？」
I'd make a Baby Snooks reference, but only friendly would get it.
OK, so I'm a week early, but as many know, I rarely see my son. There's essentially no prospect of seeing him this year, at age six. Well, won't be the first year. But it's making the approach of Father's Day sit heavily.
Between bouts of this, I try to remember the happier moments. I'm launching this thread with the idea of making it a place to share stories of being or (not) having a dad, happy or sad.
But make some of 'em happy, 'kay? I'll start.
Oh, and if you tell him I told you this, I'll hunt you down with a bazooka.
It was around Mother's Day, age five, but on this day Mommy had errands and suggested we go to the West Side Park. Said park was maybe fifteen minutes walk away. Out we set, admired by the girls working in the beauty salon who watched us pass (we were just so kawai~i together).
Arriving at the park, my son breaks into a run to the far end. I follow. He points out the (empty) pond, the airplane (strictly speaking a windmill), then stops dead and says, "O-shiko."
This means "pee." My wife had warned me he let it go a little long on this, and the restrooms were clear across the longest possible axis of the park. I suggested that we hurry.
Perhaps 3/4 of the way there, we encountered a father and son kicking a soccer ball around. He stopped. Figuring he was watching the ball, I began to again suggest alacrity, but noticed a pained expression on his face and a copious stream of urine exiting his left pant leg.
I grabbed him up and ran as if the wings of an FTD florist were upon my feet. We entered the men's, I bellied him up to the porcelain god and helped him with his pants.
Oh . . . dear . . . . He'd also loaded the pan.
Hoisted him around and into the stall, onto the pedestal devoted to two, trying to keep him from slipping into the maw which yawned beneath his tiny bum. Cleanup was key! The immaculately shiny chromed dispenser yielded precisely three miniscule pieces of waxed paper.
The other stall was fresh out. Telling him to hang on, I charged into the women's yelling the vernacular for, "Sorry, ladies! Sorry!" Luckily there were no ladies (or gals, for that matter). Less luckily, all three stalls (I s'pose it's fair they get an extra) were as paperless as online banking.
Back I went. Poop had already been disseminated widely enough that I just sought to get it anywhere that wasn't him, using his underwear to wipe him off best I could. He refused to have his wet shoes put back on--and who could blame him?--so I took him in my arms, his wet shoes in one hand and the distinctly chairoi bundle of underwear in the other. Like Napoleon from Moscow, so did we squishily trudge back home.
This reporter was too preoccupied to note the reaction of the beauty shop this time.
Got him into some clean clothes there and washed everything out in the toilet. Where to put the results was a dilemma, analogous culture clashes having been one reason I no longer lived in Japan (thankfully my wife's initial BP spike gave way to an admission that I'd put them in a reasonable place).
Why remember this fan-hitting episode fondly? As soon as I'd gotten him cleaned up, he suggested a return to the park. Unfortunately his other shoes were at grandma's (where I'm persona non grata), but his toy trains were there . . .
. . . and they spent the afternoon happily ever after.
Next morning, my walk took me past the scene of the slime . . . er . . . crime, where I observed the o-souji-ojisan in his two-toned green uniform busily cleaning up the men's. I started to formulate an apology, then chickened out and kept walking.
But thinking back now . . .
. . . wasn't it his job to keep the paper stocked?
Oi! Bakayarou! Toirettopeepaa ha temei no shoubai na? NA!?
I'd make a Baby Snooks reference, but only friendly would get it.
OK, so I'm a week early, but as many know, I rarely see my son. There's essentially no prospect of seeing him this year, at age six. Well, won't be the first year. But it's making the approach of Father's Day sit heavily.
Between bouts of this, I try to remember the happier moments. I'm launching this thread with the idea of making it a place to share stories of being or (not) having a dad, happy or sad.
But make some of 'em happy, 'kay? I'll start.
Oh, and if you tell him I told you this, I'll hunt you down with a bazooka.
It was around Mother's Day, age five, but on this day Mommy had errands and suggested we go to the West Side Park. Said park was maybe fifteen minutes walk away. Out we set, admired by the girls working in the beauty salon who watched us pass (we were just so kawai~i together).
Arriving at the park, my son breaks into a run to the far end. I follow. He points out the (empty) pond, the airplane (strictly speaking a windmill), then stops dead and says, "O-shiko."
This means "pee." My wife had warned me he let it go a little long on this, and the restrooms were clear across the longest possible axis of the park. I suggested that we hurry.
Perhaps 3/4 of the way there, we encountered a father and son kicking a soccer ball around. He stopped. Figuring he was watching the ball, I began to again suggest alacrity, but noticed a pained expression on his face and a copious stream of urine exiting his left pant leg.
I grabbed him up and ran as if the wings of an FTD florist were upon my feet. We entered the men's, I bellied him up to the porcelain god and helped him with his pants.
Oh . . . dear . . . . He'd also loaded the pan.
Hoisted him around and into the stall, onto the pedestal devoted to two, trying to keep him from slipping into the maw which yawned beneath his tiny bum. Cleanup was key! The immaculately shiny chromed dispenser yielded precisely three miniscule pieces of waxed paper.
The other stall was fresh out. Telling him to hang on, I charged into the women's yelling the vernacular for, "Sorry, ladies! Sorry!" Luckily there were no ladies (or gals, for that matter). Less luckily, all three stalls (I s'pose it's fair they get an extra) were as paperless as online banking.
Back I went. Poop had already been disseminated widely enough that I just sought to get it anywhere that wasn't him, using his underwear to wipe him off best I could. He refused to have his wet shoes put back on--and who could blame him?--so I took him in my arms, his wet shoes in one hand and the distinctly chairoi bundle of underwear in the other. Like Napoleon from Moscow, so did we squishily trudge back home.
This reporter was too preoccupied to note the reaction of the beauty shop this time.
Got him into some clean clothes there and washed everything out in the toilet. Where to put the results was a dilemma, analogous culture clashes having been one reason I no longer lived in Japan (thankfully my wife's initial BP spike gave way to an admission that I'd put them in a reasonable place).
Why remember this fan-hitting episode fondly? As soon as I'd gotten him cleaned up, he suggested a return to the park. Unfortunately his other shoes were at grandma's (where I'm persona non grata), but his toy trains were there . . .
. . . and they spent the afternoon happily ever after.
Next morning, my walk took me past the scene of the slime . . . er . . . crime, where I observed the o-souji-ojisan in his two-toned green uniform busily cleaning up the men's. I started to formulate an apology, then chickened out and kept walking.
But thinking back now . . .
. . . wasn't it his job to keep the paper stocked?
Oi! Bakayarou! Toirettopeepaa ha temei no shoubai na? NA!?
