There are some aspects of parenting life men don’t like to talk about. When we spawn daughters, we open ourselves to learning about lady parts and lady systems and when we do, we raise our fists to heaven and cry Why, Lord, why?!
We learn, for instance, that women, when living together for a long time, often exhibit a tendency to join cycles.
That’s code, by the way. That sentence expresses medical information so vile and revolting to men that it must be rendered carefully, with the utmost respect for the ladies and, more importantly, with words that won’t make a man involuntarily stab himself in the ears.
Because we are weak! We are trembly! We can talk about sports injuries with bones protruding from the skin topped with spleen remnants like little flags of decorum because we are men and hunting and trucks and I had to skin a bear this one time and the blood, you wouldn’t believe the—what was I talking about?
So women cycle. We all know this. Favorite secret women stuff trivium.
Here’s what we have not been told, the remarkable truth: men cycle too.
No, I am not talking about manpon moments. I do not support the recent theory of MANstrual cycles. That’s idiotic and once a month I really get bent out of shape about it. No, we often express an entirely different rhythm.
We poop cycle.
I know this because my son has morphed into a mesomorph of sasquatchian proportions and like his shoes, his shirts, his underwear, and his appetite, his big jobs have grown to match.
His turds are cthulian.
And though I often am called upon to wield the reverse rubber blunderbuss—regularly—to dislodge one of his terrifying dumposauri, I do so with the slpenetic aplomb any seasoned father employs.
What’s getting to me is not the mind boggling size of his expressions, but their frequency. Specifically, the recent phenomenon whereby his sudden and urgently imminent missions seem to occur mere seconds after I have settled into a mission of my own.
I will find myself in the library, with a book, a cup of coffee, some light music, and get to the matter at hand, when I am interrupted by his fists pounding on the door.
“Dad, what are you doing!?”
“Filing a memo.”
“Dad, I need to get in there.”
“I haven’t even opened my book!”
“Dad! This is SERIOUS!”
“We have three bathrooms, kid.”
“Well, use the one upstairs!”
“You realize, I’m currently parking a buick.”
“OH MY GOD! DAD! Let me in!”
“The basement bathroom is pretty close.”
“SO AM I!”
This happens with alarming regularity. Why he cannot employ one of the auxiliary bathrooms is beyond me. Maybe he thinks they’re haunted. (After he uses one, I might agree.) And [My Attorney], naturally, takes his side, imploring me to choose one of the associate loos as my preferred dropping off point. But I refuse. I am the man of the house—by seniority if not by size—and I get dibs.
Why scientists have not made this phenom a priority study, I’ll never know, but it is a matter of great urgency. We
stay-at-home dads writers need uninterrupted periods of research and reflection. Having a dancing Sasquatch pounding on the door of your library makes it hard to study.