Last week the two-year-old announced, "I have to do poos," and then stood stationary in the center of the kitchen.
"Get to the toilet then," I shrieked and clapped. As if clapping would motivate him more. He shed his underwear and pants. I chased him to the bathroom. His baby penis flapped, I chased him, and I felt like a child molester.
After he took a shit, he slid off the seat, catapulting excrement from his butthole and departing with a feces ribbon across the white toilet seat. He propelled to the floor, bent over, and erected his butt into the air. As I wiped the two-year-old's ass, he screamed like he was being stalked by the crocodile from Peter Pan.
"What's wrong what's wrong what's wrong?" I asked, trying to vocalize over the hysterics.
"There's a bubble! There's a bubble!"
"Where's a bubble?" I questioned.
"Behind my doo doo," he said.
He had discovered his balls.
Tonight, I craved to be around the two-year-old as much as I desire to be in proximity to the Bubonic Plague. In the afternoon, he sobbed because the pool looked dirty. He howled when I wouldn't let him watch Silence of the Lambs. He bawled when he saw a bird fly past the window. He wanted the bird as a pet.
As he sat in the bathtub, I tenderly squeezed water from a flooded washcloth over his back. He panic-sobbed.
"What's wrong what's wrong what's wrong?" I bellowed.
He responded with tears and screams because his right fist clenched his penis and his left clamped his balls. He violently ripped his penis one way and his balls the other. Despite my desperate-babysitter efforts, the two-year-old hailed tears for ten minutes because of his masochistic tendencies.