Dear Hillary,
You know I love you more than words. You are my everything, and I orbit around you as does the earth the sun. I love spending almost every moment I can with you.
Note that word, “almost.”
As much as I love you, you do not need to hunt me down every time I sneak off to relieve my bowels. Pooping is a nicely private time to me, and I try not to male it up too much, with a newspaper and 20 minutes of solitude. No, I’m a fast, one-minute get-it-outa-me fast pooper.
(I have a healthy colon.)
I also, for the record, find it a bit disconcerting you feel the need to go peering into the toilet after I stand up. I know you’re just an inquisitive child, but the arch of your eyebrow that signifies interest on your little face… Yeah, it’s poop. Nothing interesting there.
I would close the door, but you crying and pounding on it is good for neither of our mental states.
Maybe you think, “But Dad, you see me poop all the time! I make quite a show of it!”
And you do.
You furrow your brow and gain a look of intense concentration.
Your face becomes red with pressure, as you try and work out exactly what’s going on with your little body.
And like a summer storm, everything passes quickly and you go on about your day happily.
Or, you try to, but I scoop you up and it’s time for a diaper change, where you fuss and squirm and flail all four appendages as I try to wrestle you into a clean Pamper.
Anyway, I can only hope that you soon remain distracted enough by whatever you are doing that when you notice I am not around, you grant me the moments of respite from your presence I require.
Love,
Dad
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