Can't Keep It In

I never quite understood my father's need to sit for so long in the bathroom when he got home from work. Thinking now, it probably was a whole ten minutes he would take. I also didn't understand why he would get so angry when I would come and knock on the "office" door to ask him some trivial question, or to tell him that the phone was for him. It truly amazed me at how easily it upset him.

Until today.

The girls were playing nicely. I had been holding "it" in me for at least a half an hour so I could complete giving them dinner. I got them to quietly start to entertain themselves before I made the quick slip to the nearby commode. It was not like I had to really work on completing this task. I was ready to go. But what was I rewarded with before I even got to unravel the toilet paper?

"Daaaa-ddy?"

The heavy breathing of the little one was wheezing through the seam between the door and the hinges, as Emma finger-tapped the door as she called for me. I barely had my pants undone. I hardly had balanced myself on the john and both of them were all up into my business. "Great accountants for the IRS someday." I thought to myself.

Demanding back to the hollow door, "WHAT!?"

"Um, when are you going to give me my dessert?" the innocent cherub voice questioned sweetly from the other side of the water closet door.

Pardon the phrase, but I just about shit. If I didn't have my pants wrapped around my ankles I probably would of stomped out of the room in absolute disgust for the situation. I was just in the same room with her just a minute ago... just 45 seconds ago, and she follows me to the toilet to ask me if I will get her ice cream? Is that before or after I wipe?

Collecting myself, I tell her that she can wait, that I am, "Busy right at the moment."

Of course, Ellie realized that I was having too much fun inside that funny little room with the odd shaped water bowl without her, and her pick-me-up-and-love-me-wail begins. You know the one. The cry that starts deep inside the belly and grows as it escapes the nose and mouth, changing octaves as it reaches the surface.

This little interlude is complete. "Sorry about that Dad," I murmured to myself, remembering my childhood punishments to my father this same way. It really means a lot more than I ever really thought.