The Duece

I have decided that I need a phone booth to be installed in my living room so that when I change into my superdad costume I will have some privacy.

Not that I mind people knowing that I am superdad. This is another reason why I would be a terrible superhero. I would not keep my secret identity secret. That sucks balls. Of course I would want everyone to know that I am the one who saved the world and kept the sun from exploding. I could turn that into a shot on Oprah and then a great book deal. I would then retire and spend my time constantly reminding the world how supercool I was.

The other night I was sitting in my God Father chair. I bought this solely so that I could look imposing when making family decisions. When my daughters future dates come in, I want them to be shaking as I sit in my power chair and decided their fate. I want them to be so nervous that they flub their words as I stroke my hairless cat. Live or die young man, it’s your choice.

It’s a great leather chair, deep seated and overstuffed. Dark brown leather, with the smell of power coming from it. Yes, yes, the world is mine.

This is where I was at while I was watching basketball. I’m normally not an everyday fan but the local team is gearing up for the playoffs, thus I sit. I find it odd that as soon as the word “playoffs” are introduced into any sport, I will watch. I may have not watched the cricket team all year, but damn it if I’m not going to support them in the playoffs.

That’s when I hear a scream from upstairs. It’s chilling. It’s filled with fear. Superdad quickly leaves his chair of power and rushes upstairs. It is my very secret fear that something will happen to my daughter and my wife. Are scream is the usual indication that this might be happening. However, those two are very screamy and love to see me scramble up the stairs during a playoff game. 99% of the time it is crap.

My cat left a dead bird in the bed once. My wife picked it up thinking that it was a stuffed toy. Yup, she screamed her head off. I got there with a golf club in my hand, ready to deliver protection to any foes foolish enough to invade my sanctum. When I saw it was a dead bird that could not hurt anyone my wife and I had to have a talk about control our reactions and thus saving superdad from a heart attack.

So with this new scream the worst came to my mind. My daughter was having a bath time which is filled with potential danger.

I raced into the hallway, my imaginary cape flapping wildly in the make believe wind. I saw my wife clinging to Little Hoss, fear in my wife’s eyes. My daughter on the other hand, had a shit eating grin on. I was intrigued.

“Go look in the bathtub!” my wife ordered.

I grabbed my machete from the closet. I don’t believe in guns, but knives are cool.

I stepped into the bathroom not knowing what to expect. Had a snake slithered up the toilet like that old urban legend? Was there a tarantula that had gotten in and had slowly wrapped up the cats in a silk web of death? Where was my dog, my trusty sidekick?

My sidekick is a coward. He is afraid of baths so won’t come in with me.

Everything is quite, I see nothing moving. I am on heightened alert, defcon 5, maximum perimeter defense.

There is no sound but the slow drip of the tub faucet. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, stopping to admire the chiseled chin. Closer to the tub I get, the anxiety raises. I peer in. What demon is there? What danger lurks yonder.

A turd. There is a turd floating in the bathtub. There is a turd floating next to another turd in my bathtub.

Using my extensive investigative skills I quickly deduced what produced the deuce. My daughter, in her bathtime playtime, decided to go lay a number 2 in the tub.

According to my wife, my child smiled and stood up. She then squatted like she was about to splash, then grunted. My wife then saw the complete little baby poop float past her leg. The rest is a blur, just a scream and a laugh by my daughter.

So this is why I am here. I have no idea why this has become my job. But on occasion, superdad doesn’t get to save anyone, he gets the grunt work.

I have no idea how to remove 2 pieces of baby poo from water. I have never done this before, have never wanted to do this before, and have never even thought about the problem before.

I take stock of the tools that I have next to me. Not good. I grab the plunger thinking that I can balance the poop on top of it and do a quick fling to the toilet. I quickly discover that this isn’t happening. It’s slimy.

Plan B: I could drain the tub. Of course, that means that I have to stick my hand in it. Ok, that’s a last resort kind of option. Not to keen on that one.

Plan C: Toilet paper. Ok, this is going to work. I use roughly 2 rolls of toilet paper to make a toilet paper mitten. Completely impervious to any actual contact.
I take a deep breath, hold it, and make the grab. It’s not easy. Things start to fall off. The toilet paper soaks up a lot of water. It’s like trying to grab an eggshell out of scrambled eggs.
Finally, victory is mine. The whole mess goes in the toilet. I grab the plunger as I flush waiting for the eventual clogging. But it does not come, superdad catches a break. I take the plunger and eventually trip the stopper to the tub and all the water goes out. I will need to call the maid to see if she could come early.

I walk into my daughters room where by now my wife and child are laughing. It appears that they could hear my cussing as I was doing this chore. Superman never cussed but he never had to fish poop out of a tub like it was a mackerel. They see the sweat on my forehead and can’t help but laugh more.

I am disappointed that my weapon of choice for the day was a plunger and not my machete.

But once again, superdad saves the day.