Summer swept in like a blast furnace this weekend and sent people scurrying for conditioned air like rats when the lights are turned on. The prospect of spending an entire Saturday flipping the channels at Evans World Headquarters didn’t feel particularly appealing, so I made the executive decision that we’d all go to the movies. Given that we are a family of Pixar junkies, choosing which movie to see wasn’t a problem.
After we spent THIRTY FUCKING DOLLARS for four tickets to the first matinee of the day, we settled into the comfy stadium seating with our popcorn and Diet Coke in hand and prepared to be dazzled. Which we were. As always. Who would have believed that a rat in the kitchen could ever be so appealing and appetizing?
About two-thirds into the movie, right when the rat was facing the ominous conundrum of maintaining his allegiance to his family versus retreating to live in the sewer with his family, I felt the familiar tap on my leg.
“Daddy,” he said. “I have to go potty.”
It never fails. Never! I don’t mind that the child has to pee but we’ll definitely have to work on more appropriate timing. Why can’t he do it during the opening credits? Why can’t he remember to bring an empty Aquafina bottle into the theater so he can empty his bladder into it without missing any of the movie? (Oh like you’ve never done that? Puh-leeze.)
So we go. I tell him we have to hurry because there hasn’t been a sex scene yet and I’ll be damned if I’m going to shell-out THIRTY FUCKING DOLLARS without seeing some nudity – animated or otherwise. I don’t believe the child heard my instructions because he has to stop at every movie poster along the way and tell me how bad he wants to see the film. “Yeahyeahyeah. OK. Fine. I’ll take you to see the Transformers movie even though it will probably scare the piss out of you. And hey! Speaking of piss out of you…MOVE YOUR ASS!”
Because they are communist assholes who rape their customers, this particular theater didn’t have a urinal in their men’s room low enough for a six-year-old to access, so The Champ went into the first stall and latched the door shut. And there I stood, waiting, trying to miracle the pee out of him as fast as possible using mind bullets and whatnot. When a man is in the same building where cartoon boobs could be on a screen the size of Poughkeepsie in an adjoining room, he will do whatever it takes to get there to see it, including a humiliating attempt to will his son to pee faster.
After a moment, I hear the snap on his shorts clink against the porcelain bowl behind the stall door. I interpret that as good news. He’s done. He’s just zipping up.
Wrong.
“Daddy,” he said, his voice echoing against the tile walls and metal stall separators. “I have to go poop.”
He may as well have told me he didn’t want me to be his daddy anymore. That’s how bad it hurt. That’s the kind of crushing blow it was. I became angry.
“No!” I said. “Absolutely not. You may not poo. Do you understand me? You pinch that thing off right now and hold it in until the movie’s over!”
“Too late,” he said through a mighty grunt. And then I heard a plop.
“Son of a…” I fumed.
And then I subconsciously started to channel Dustin Hoffman in Kramer vs. Kramer.
“I’m warning you, you do that again and you are in big trouble. (Plop) Don’t…Hey! Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare do that. You hear me? Hold it right there! You make another doodie and you are in very, very, VERY big trouble. Don’t you dare do anymore doodie. Pinch it off right now. I am not going to say it again. I am NOT going to say it AGAIN!”
Plop.
There’s a lot more to the story, but it’s probably a little too gory to share with you. Suffice it to say that the movie we saw yesterday will forever be known in our house as “Ratapooie.”
It's WAY better than pooping in the stadium seating. Other movie patrons throw their popcorn at you for that kind of behavior.
Sorry, man. I don't think the Aquafina water bottle would've helped much in this situation. Might've been interesting, though.
Sorry, man. I don't think the Aquafina water bottle would've helped much in this situation. Might've been interesting, though.
This sounds eerily similar to a dialogue I recently had, except it was with my husband.
Damn this blog is hilarious!
So was there an Act II of Poop? or was it just a two-flusher?
"...and sent people scurrying for conditioned air like rats when the lights are turned on."
Bossy saw that movie this past weekend! Hilarious!
OMG...I can't believe how many times I had to tell my son that..only we were shopping and I left my glass of wine on the counter!
Are our sons related? That is so my son as well! I think he is on a schedule now though, at home anyway. Every single night, about halfway through dinner, he has to make a deposit. And, when we went to see Shrek the Third, it was the same thing. Kids...
My brother and I took my son to see Surf's Up over the weekend. Being a parent of small children, I don't get out to the movies all that often these days, so maybe I'm out of the loop, but...
After we purchased our tickets, my son declared he would like popcorn. So we decide to buy the #1 combo: large popcorn and two large drinks. My brother and I are kind of joking about how much it will cost, when the girl says to me, "That'll be $16."
Blink. Blink-blink. Really? Sixteen effing DOLLARS for some popped corn and soda syrup (what amounts to probably fifty cents in expenditure)? Isn't that like a six thousand percent markup, or something like that?
I said to my brother as we walked away with our $16 popcorn and sodas (with unlimited free refills, mind, as though that should ease the blow), "We just got bent over and reamed with no lube."
DS#1 was infamous at the Parents as Teachers playgroup for dropping land mines in his Huggies exactly 10 minutes after entering a room full of other toddlers. Every week. Without fail. All the other parents would look at me first when the noxious odor appeared.
Fast forward six years. DS#1 no longer requires assistance with defecation, but he still takes nearly every opportunity to christen foreign porcelain. Usually right in the middle of dinner at a restaurant. And for some reason, he still needs to announce it so at least 60% of the patrons can hear.
If we all go to a movie and the Mighty Hunter procures the Giant Drink (which requires us to cash in a portion of our 401K), HE gets to take the offending bladder to the bathroom. If This Mom takes kids to the movies, she sneaks mini water bottles in her purse and buys candy at the dollar store. This Mom does not fork over the car payment to get popcorn hulls stuck in her dental work.
BTW, my kids thought the name of the movie (which we have not seen yet) was Ratatootie.
Oh, the memories...I've never known anyone more regular than my son...except my dog. From the time he was potty trained he would announce 10 minutes into dinner that he had to potty. I knew then that I had three minutes to enjoy my meal while hot before hearing, "Mommmmmmy! Come wipe me! Guests always got a kick out of this...He seems to have outgrown this now that he just graduated high school, but my psychotic standard poodle has taken over - She always has the need to 'dinner dump' a few minutes into...ah, hell, let's eat out.
I can completely emphathize with ya, DGM. My 8 yr old son will, without fail, wait until I announce it's bedtime, to make his annoucement that he has to make a "deposit". (Or else he waits until we are leaving the house for school or some other inconvenient time, movies included.) He is the slowest pooper known to man, taking anywhere from 10 to 20 mintues to do his business. I swear it's his way of staying up past his bedtime. That lil stinker! BTW, love your blog, stumbled upon it inadvertently, but now your in my favs!
My son did the SAME thing, SAME movie. I made a huge deal of asking both the kids if they had to go before we sat down, since I felt like Mighty Mom that day and took a 4 and 3 year old to the movies alone. They went. Then halfway through, wouldn't you know it 4yr old boy has to drop one. And he doesn't wait. I have to poo means I have to poo now, I can hold it but I'll verbally peck you to death about it until I can let 'er rip. So up we ALL got and back to the bathroom. For precisely 3 pebbles. I felt seriously gypped. I felt like that could have really waited until the end of the flick. 3 pebbles does not constitute a poo. Anyway, I feel your pain. Great blog.
You know the thing of it? As much as you were DYING to get back in to that movie is about as much as you will be DYING to get away from it when you buy the dvd in three months and it plays over and over and over and over and over and over and over again in your living room.
That's my guess.
but, heck. gotta love 'em, right?
So...I'm thinking...he takes after you, no? :o)