“Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Didn’t we go before you left?”

“Yes, but I have to go again.”

This happens any time we’re out in public. It doesn’t matter if they went 15 seconds ago. As soon as you get them out of the house, their Spidey senses detect a WalMart a bathroom nearby, and they HAVE to use it. It’s pretty much how they were potty trained.

The girl refused to poop anywhere except at a Walmart.

“PACK UP THE CAR, HONEY. THE GIRL HAS TO POOP.”

Running out to poop at the WalMart is about one step away from taking a shower in their sink.

The upside is that it means less bathroom cleaning for me. And at least they can both wipe their own asses. I don’t care what people say about raising teenagers. They can disobey me and get arrested for all I care. As long as I’m not still wiping their asses I’d say I’m winning.

A couple of years ago when I was potty training the girl we were standing in the refrigerator as I went to get her some orange juice. As I take out the container I notice a wet spot on the floor and think to myself, Geez, that’s strange I didn’t see anything spill. Is the container leaking? No, it’s fine. Where did that come from?

WHO CARES where it came from. Just clean it up. However, in my mind I need to know what this liquid is. You just can’t wipe it up with a paper towel. What if it is juice? Then you have to use soap and water or it will be sticky. There are a lot of different variables here. You just can’t clean up a spill without knowing the source. I look around and for the life of me can’t figure out how something spilled on the floor when I was standing right there.

I can’t just wipe this up and not know what it is. A puddle magically appeared in the middle of my floor. There’s only one way to disprove this magical puddle – use science. So I do what any scientist would do. I taste it.

I dip my finger in and lick it. Nope, I can’t tell. Maybe I just didn’t get a large enough sample size. So I try again… for science. Nope, still can’t tell.

What is that? It can’t be water. This is so strange … wait.

“Honey, can you turn around for me?”

The girl turns around and her bottom is completely soaked. She had wet herself standing there, and I had just licked it off the floor. So I really can’t imagine how raising teenagers can be any worse when you’ve already tasted your kid’s piss. For science.

I never was very strong in math. Although, I thought, it’s one class. I can take my time. I can go over the material. I should be able to get this.

I spent two days on a problem set. I didn’t solve one.

The good news is, I’m no different than any other American. I don’t get math either. That should be all you need for a citizenship. Oh, and shooting shit. If you suck at math and can shoot shit, it’s good enough to be one of us.

How the hell am I suppose to solve this? They’re not numbers. They’re not even letters.

I wanted to get this. I tried. I neglected my wife and kids so I could solve logic problems. I went at this with the intensity of, well, a really intense person. I was determined that if I just tried hard enough I would get it.

I should have probably stuck with being unemployed. I seem to be really good at that.

Nothing has changed since I graduated over fiftee.. I mean five years ago. We just throw shit at people and expect them to figure it out. I see it in this class. I see it with my son. I’d help him with his math problems, but I’m busy trying to figure out how to prove p. He thinks division is hard. Wait until they throw letters into the mix.

Then, when you can’t figure it out, you think it’s you. Maybe it’s not you. Maybe it’s them.

I got the legs by vacuuming you know.

Screw P90x. Fifteen minutes of tag with kids in the park will slim your ass down. Try it some time. Even if you don’t have kids. Just go up to completely random kids at the park and start chasing them around. I’m sure their parents will understand.

“Guys, I have to take a break.”

“Come on, play with us.”

Don’t these kids have parents? If not, I’m going to choke this kid out if he tags me one more time. I just want to sit.

“Daddy, I want to make a friend.”

Great, now I’m a five-year-old match maker? You are asking the wrong person to help you make friends. I don’t even like people. She wants to run around trying to make “friends.” I don’t even want to make eye contact.

Don’t look at her. She’s going to talk to you if you do. Don’t do it. I don’t care how strange it is that she’s breast feeding a kid old enough to request it, in the middle of a public space. DON’T LOOK. Don’t … crap, I looked.

Now I’ll have to have some uncomfortable conversation with a complete stranger. The whole time thinking of a way to get out of here without being a complete prick. Of course, I know they’re wondering what a father is doing at the park in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. And talking to her can only lead to the inevitable question.

“So, what do you do?”

Then I’ll turn around and yell, “OH, THERE YOU GO AGAIN, BRINGING IT UP! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?! THIS IS WHAT IT SOUNDS LIKE WHEN DOVES CRY!” Then I’ll put my face in my hands and run away crying, forgetting about the kids and leaving them to fend for themselves. Luckily, kids have great survival instincts. I saw them in the backyard yesterday, poking a turtle with a stick – survival instincts.

So, really, when you think about it, I’ve just mathematically proven why it’s better for the both of us if I never talk to you. It’s math people. You can’t argue with math.

It’s another one of the great benefits of being a parent. We have an excuse to listen to crappy teen music. That and Katy Perry has some catchy jingles. You can’t help but sing along. Curse you Katy Perry.

“BABY, YOU’RE A FIREWORK. COME ON LET YOUR COLORS BURST!”

“Daddy, you’re a bad singer.”

“Well, lucky for you we’re here. Why don’t you get out and head to the park.”

I release the kids into their natural habitat and saunter on over to the bench. I’m going to sit down and watch the homeless guy next to me. I think he’s asleep, but I can’t be sure. I want to poke him, but if he is asleep then that’s just rude. But if he’s dead … I might have some sort of legal responsibility. You know what, I’ll just use the Penn State University emergency plan and report it to my immediate supervisor – my wife.

Crap, all I wanted to do was sit. Alone. For five minutes.

“CHASE ME! CHASE ME!”

So of course, I do. The things I do for love

Before I know it the entire park has joined in.

Then every time I get close to one of them they call timeout. I don’t remember reading that in the rule book. Then, before I know it, they’re chasing me.

I can't stop looking at my giant giraffe legs.

I can actually read the minds of the other parents. Each time I go with the family to the park I feel like they look at my wife and think, “Isn’t she a great woman, raising two little ones and a giant special needs child.”

This whole experience looks like a scene out of a NatGeo special. A giant deer running in the open as 15 woodland creatures run behind. Not that I run like a deer. It looks more like a circus has come to town. My long arms and legs just flailing as I lug along my size 14 feet. Suddenly I realize. This isn’t how you play tag. I’m suppose to be chasing them.

Now I’m sprinting away from four to eight year olds, making cuts and ninja jumping off the top of the jungle gym. It gets pretty intense. It’s the only thing I have to do all day besides make patterns in the carpet with the vacuum – like the outfield in baseball. I turn it into a game, and see if I can better my previous pattern. Last week I made the Last Supper in the master bedroom.

Of course the kids think this is all great. That’s because I’m using the jungle gym in ways it isn’t suppose to be, which will have an interesting side effect when they go back home, and little Jimmy jumps from the top of mom and dad’s banister.

So, really, who has special needs now?

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Have you checked the batteries in the smoke detector?”

Every year parents are asked over 4 million times if they've checked the batteries because some guy in a Smokey the Bear costume visited their school.

“Yes, sweetie. I checked them last week on Daylight Savings.”

“Did they work? You know, every year over 2,000 children are killed in house fires. Do you want me to die? You should make sure.”

“Is that in the U.S. or Canada? Because they have different standards up there. Then there’s the metric system, so I’m sure they can’t just go out and buy your standard nine volt.”

“What?”

“Never mind. But yes, I do check them.”

“Are you sure you checked them? I don’t want to die because you were lazy.”

“You know, those things are hardwired.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look, I’ll test it right now for you.”

BEEEEEEEEEEEEP

Then, from the other end of the house, comes the wife, “WHAT WAS THAT?”

“I’M TESTING THE SMOKE DETECTERS!”

“WHAT?”

“I’M TESTING THE SMOKE… FORGET IT.”

Cracking open the bathroom door allows for better acoustics while maintaining privacy. Yes, this is what you missed out on ladies.

By the way, that’s how most marriages communicate. It’s not love unless we’re having complete conversations yelling at each other through the bathroom door.

Every time there is some school assembly I have to live it in the house. This time it was from the minor league hockey team mascot. Not the team. The mascot. Some giant foam head told him all about the importance of exercise. So now he reminds me that they need sixty minutes of physical activity every day. I just hope that school doesn’t celebrate prostate awareness month.