Skip to main content

pee


I woke up early this morning to a raucous summons by the youngest member of our household. Eyes struggling to see, I changed his diaper. Noticing his heat rash was still violently red, I left him diaperless and held a cloth over his bare bottom. I sat down at my computer to check emails before beginning a regime of interrupted yoga. I had answered one letter, when a fountain erupted on my lap. Quickly I used the cloth to staunch the flow. "Pssss, Psss", I said, taking him to the toilet where he sat smiling up at me for a few moments. Yes, I know that children are not ready to potty train at this age, but a girlfriend of mine said connecting the act with a simple sound allows them to train earlier and communicate faster, so I tried. We sat back down at the computer, wiping up urine, when another shower threatened to drench the entire surface once more. "Psss, Psss" I said, while Bodhi flung his arms and legs enthusiastically into the air. Obviously proud of his accomplishment. Together we searched for my camera, to take a picture of him on the toilet. Finding it we laughed our way to the bathroom where he sat braced and poised on the toilet seat, I snapped the picture and he promptly peed. Not into the waiting waters below, but rather in a sweeping arc that managed to get the camera and operator very wet. I looked at his surprised face. "Yes, Bodhi went Pssss Psss". Obviously pleased with this wonderful new game, "Pee on Mom", Bodhi smiled once more. As for myself? I reached for the diapers.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

FORGET ABOUT ‘HEALING’

Some days,  you just have to forget  about ‘healing’. You have to stop trying to feel better, trying to overcome your emotional wounds, or trying to be anywhere other than where you are. You have to embrace the day as it is. And you have to give yourself the most sacred permission of all: To shatter.  To break.  To be an ugly mess. To lean into a place of utter humility and powerlessness in yourself. To cry out to the heavens, “I can’t do this!” To admit utter defeat  in the loss of the life  you had imagined. To crumble to the ground, lonely and hopeless and profoundly ruined. To want to die, even. And there, in the darkest places, in the blackness of the underworld, you may begin to rediscover... life.  And learn to love the beginnings. A sacred reboot: A single breath.  The way the sun warms your face. The sound of a tiny bird singing in the tree over there. The raw simplicity of a single moment of human existence. Hell has been transmuted, thr...
Post a Comment
Read more

a story recently shared by a friend

 Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all of the others, including Love. One day it was announced to the feelings that island would sink, so all constructed boats and left. Except for Love. Love was the only one who stayed. Love wanted to hold out until the last possible moment. When the island had almost sunk, Love decided to ask for help. Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said, "Richness, can you take me with you?" Richness answered, "No, I can't. There is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you." Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel. "Vanity, please help me!" "I can't help you, Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat," Vanity answered. Sadness was close by so Love asked, "Sadness, let me go with you." "Oh . . . Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself...
7 comments
Read more

He is no longer here

Another day has begun.  I have lit my candles and incense.  Sat in silence. Worked up a sweat at the gym.  Eaten breakfast.  Straightened house.  Answered mail and dropped my man off at the airport. It is eight in the morning and the world stirs with wakefulness.  The sun climbs in the sky.  The birds sing.  The squirrels chip and chur in tree branches.  A dog barks.  And I look with dull eyes at the long day ahead, contemplating a single phrase, "My father is dead." What strange words. My father is dead. The man has been leaving for as long as I can remember and yet his death robs the wind from my lungs.  My chest throbs and throat tightens.  He isn't coming back. My mom and dad had slipped out of one another's lives before I'd barely begun mine.  Two weekends a month my brothers and I stood on a saggy porch, bags packed, eager for our hero to arrive in his old blue Ford to pick us up.  We vibrated with hope...
5 comments
Read more