Don’t Wrestle a Poo Covered Brush Away From a 2 Year Old

I’m amazed at what normal has become to me. In some houses, a cushionless couch would be cause for concern. But in the Crutchfield home, this is just normal. A two year old running around wearing nothing but a fedora while asking for someone to “wipe my booty”, is a statement heard so often, that it barely gets an eyebrow raise from either Lacey or me. The phrase,”No cookies until you finish your Lucky Charms” is my Sunday morning staple. And all of it is our normal.

This is not to say that our house is a Lord of the Flies type free for all. It’s not. Lacey and I are parents to a 4, 2, and 1 year old. We have been forced from man-to-man coverage into more of a prevent defense. And much like the prevent, our kids often shred it for huge gains.

This past Friday, Lacey was cleaning up what was an amazing dinner (love ya, babe) while I was trying to prevent the aforementioned 2 year old in a fedora from escaping the bathroom after his business was complete. The Perry the Platypus wannabe had instructed me to give him some privacy while he did his thing. I obliged and waited for the actual completion. I say actual completion because it takes 3 or 4 times of “I’m done” until he’s actually done.

While waiting eagerly to do my fatherly duties, I heard a “clank-clank-clank”. Knowing fully that I would not like what was going on on the other side, I pushed open the door to find Grant using the toilet brush as stirring utensil of his previously mentioned business. While not in the realm of what I would call normal, this wasn’t the weirdest thing that happened that day.

I quickly deduced (see what I did there) that the toilet brush was no threat to me in the toilet and would start negotiations to keep it that way. Much like a seasoned negotiator, I started off slow and calm.

“Granty, how about we stop with the stirring, huh?”

Seeing my calm as weakness, he flatly replied, “No.”

With a bit more authority I said, “Grant, give me the brush.”

A master negotiator himself, he again replied,”No.”

Knowing my negotiating skills were useless, I decided to resort to brute force. He’s under 3 feet and weighs 40 pounds. I’m 6’2″, 220. This is a fight I should win.

After a struggle that would rival Peter Griffin and the giant chicken, Grant was sent out of the bathroom crying and without a toilet brush. By any standard metric of scoring, I was the winner. Unfortunately, for parents, winning is relative. Although I had bested my middle child in a feat of strength, I was the one covered in poo water.

Parenting is a tricky beast. I wish I could tell those not-yet-parents that this is the only time I’ve told a story about poo water. I can’t. But for every millisecond of poo water, there are years of I-love-you-daddy’s that make it all worthwhile. Being a parent is not for everyone, but it is the best thing in the world.



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