A small human is standing at the side of my bed calling me names.
“Daddy. Daddy ... Daddy!”
My eyelids, still heavy with sleep, struggle to open.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I pooped,” he says.
The odor that assaults my nose confirms his confession.
“Change my butt,” the tiny being demands.
Checking my phone I see that it’s 3 a.m. I let out a sigh as I sit up and get out of bed.
My son, Jareth, will be turning 4 years old this weekend. I am amazed that I, a person who can barely keep a houseplant alive, have successfully kept a small human alive for 48 months. Or 208 weeks. Or 1...
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