Farting in the Bathtub

Don’t act like you’ve never done it and that it does’t still make you giggle.  My poor wife lives in a house full of man folk, so farting is a regrettable part of her life and that is before we even mention the STUPID DOG.  Things only get worse when she is out of town on business.  We take full advantage of being completely unkempt slobs.  Laughing at crude bodily functions is just the start.  We rarely eat a meal in the dining room and almost never at the appointed time.  Bathing is only observed when the kid stink becomes too much for even me to handle.  Even then, it is really more about playing with action figures on a pretend river than actually bathing.  That being said, the wife is well aware by now that the operational tempo changes a bit when I take on my role as a single parent while she is away.  I do think, however, she assumes it to be far worse than it actually is.  Things maintain a certain order, there is just a different focus on priorities when I am left to my own devices.  The lack of certainty on her part is evident from the field orders that almost immediately begin trickling in via text message, reminding me of her long list of parental duties that now rest on my shoulders in her absence.

Like any good lieutenant would tell you, sometimes you have to violate direct orders in order to accomplish the mission.  The General is often miles away from the front line and doesn’t have the perspective necessary to make the split second decisions required when a firefight breaks out.  Ducking for cover and dodging through doorways is just part of the standard operating procedure on the front lines of the urban warfare that is single parenting.  I feel responsible.  More so than one can possibly comprehend when our little platoon is exclusively under my guard.  One wrong move and someone could step on a landmine and then it is game over.  And still we survive to fight another day.  After the battle has been won and the rebels have been sent scurrying on their heels, the General will return to assess the battle damage.  She will find us with thousand yard stares and grubby little faces.  There will be cuts and bruises and the occasional story of a particularly ugly skirmish, but we will be ready to fight again come morning when the rules of war will again have changed and underwater flatulence will not meet with laughter but a swift court martial and a night in the brig.  Miss you babe . . . see ya soon.  R