I think MJ has uttered that sentence 1,000 times in the last month. Sometimes to me, but mostly to Will. He’s going through a naked phase right now and he NEVER wants to wear clothes. Ever. Even getting him dressed for school is a task because he sees no reason why he can’t attend preschool in the buff. So basically if he’s in the house, the kid’s got no clothes on.
Which drives MJ crazy. Mostly because it means she is now living with two male nudists.
My wife does not understand the seemingly male desire to shed all clothes and bask in our naked glory. Especially in the oppressive heat as of late. I’m guessing she’s not a fan because stripping down to our birthday suits involves copious amounts of “exploring our bodies.” Which is a nice way of saying grabbing our junk. I’d love to say I’m just talking about Will here, but that’s not the case.
What can I say? I loved being naked as a kid and never really grew out of it. And it seems the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. And it may sound gross to you ladies, but guys do have a tendency to—well, to make some adjustments. Or to be super tactful, we go Al Bundy all over this mofo and have a crotch-grabbin’ good time.
OK, OK, so maybe I have no good excuse but Will is still figuring out where everything is and how it works. And being naked not only provides easy access for that, but it simultaneously keeps us cool in the summer.
I don’t see the big deal but it drives MJ absolutely bonkers. And it seems to be happening a lot more lately.
We were walking along the Cape Cod Canal last week—me, Will, MJ and Haley the dog—and Will had to go pee. We were pretty far from the car and there are no public restrooms. Without saying a word, Will and I immediately started walking towards the trees a little ways off the path.
Will and I stopped, both of us surprised, and just stared at her. I told her I thought it was pretty apparent that we were headed off to the nearest tree to take a leak. But my wife was horrified that we’d even consider dropping trough in a semi-populated area. She went on and on about how it’s not appropriate, how it’s uncouth and how we’re out of our minds for even thinking about it.
It’s gotta be a guy thing. It’s probably because penises are pretty handy to whip out wherever necessary and take an impromptu leak. Whereas women have to really invest in the location of a spot, the squatting and the exponentially higher likelihood of urinating on themselves, men just point and shoot.
But the most defined difference between genders in the Daddy Files household came two days ago during an incident that might be classified as “TMI” for some of you good readers with weaker stomachs. But it was too funny not to tell. You’ve been warned.
Will was in the bathroom dropping the Cleveland Browns off at the Super Bowl. And from the sound of it, they had a pretty tough road through the playoffs to get to the big game because it sounded like Will was wrestling an elephant in there. And suddenly he called out to me.
“Daddy, Daddy! Come quick. Come look at my poop!”
I didn’t give it a second thought. I was up in a flash and headed to the bathroom, my curiosity thoroughly piqued. MJ—looking as horrified and disgusted as is humanly possible—stood up and firmly objected.
“You can’t be serious. Why are you going in there to look at poop? What the hell is wrong with you??”
“Are you kidding?” I asked incredulously. “I have to go check it out. What if it’s something awesome? You only have a handful of truly memorable poops and this could be his first one. I’m going in there. You should come too.”
She walked away muttering something about disgusting men and lamenting the fact that she lives with heathens, but I stand by it.
It took me back more than 20 years ago. I was hanging out with my childhood best friend Brian when he excitedly began screaming from the bathroom. When I went in there he was wide-eyed and staring at the toilet. I asked him what was the matter, but all he could do was point to the bowl and he kept telling me to check it out. So I did.
It was a perfect continuous ring of shit around the bowl. Almost as if Brian’s ass was a soft-serve ice cream dispenser. He was so proud of it. I was completely jealous. I asked him how he did it but he said he didn’t know and it wasn’t planned. It had just happened. Like a miracle. Granted we were 9-year-old boys and easily impressed, but we were in absolute awe that day. We must’ve talked about it and (verbally) dissected it for a half hour before we had to flush it when his sister needed the bathroom.
Fast forward 20-something years and not much has changed. I’m standing in the bathroom with my 3-year-old son as he excitedly gazes down into the porcelain abyss, admiring his own handiwork. It wasn’t a “dead ringer” by any means, but it was pretty good for a beginner. And so father and son exchange a high-five (after he washed his hands of course) while mom shakes her head disapprovingly.
Sorry mom, it’s a guy thing.