Shit Home Carolina

These are the kinds of things you see when you don’t have a job besides watching your two-year-old son.  You shuttle him around in your Lexus SUV–you can see that from the window, too–bought with your wife’s money.  And it’s really amazing what a colossal amount of time a two-year-old can both occupy and not simultaneously; if you want to do something with yourself, it’s completely impossible, but there’s enough time between trips to the playground and the doctor and the supermarket and whatever else your wife, my wife, needs done, that boredom sets in with full, bared teeth.  I wonder how the millionaire kills his time.

Skype sends me two pings at once, and before I even have time to choose, Russell comes into the office and stars pulling at the leg of my basketball shorts. He’s carrying a dinosaur that’s been decapitated by our Rhodesian Ridgeback, and I don’t know what smells worse–the slobbered-on toy, or my kid. I close out both call windows, beckoning, and scoop up Russell like a football under my arm, and he’s giggling, shrieking, shaking his white-blond bowl-cut back and forth until he lands onto the changing table. My entire living room smells like shit. The dog jumps up and snatches the dinosaur. Russell yelps. I reach up to rub my eyes, but the smell on my fingers stops me. There’s a smear of shit on one of my knuckles.

The dog is barking with the headless creature in his jaw, Russell starts crying, his bare ass in the air, and my wife’s ringtone starts playing from the recesses of my back pocket. I can hear Skype start pinging in the other room.

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