Tag Archives: secret women




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.”


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.