We’re entering a weird time in HamannEggs. Elijah reads the blog now. He has a pretty good attitude about it, but got a little embarrassed by the “love of his life leaving” post from a couple weeks ago.
I toyed around with shutting the whole thing down because I worried I was screwing Eli up by sharing my innermost thoughts about him to the 30 people who read this. But Diana said, “Your blog is a gift.” And since I am a sucker for compliments I’m going to keep it going.
I am, however, going to protect the innocent when there are particularly embarrassing things to write about. Like this week. So I will not reveal which son this happened to.
A month or so ago we were at That Little Mexican Café in Evanston, wich is neither little or a café. And I can’t really verify its Mexican-ness.
After dinner, I was beaconed across the restaurant by my son who was definitely not Eli. This child who was totally not Eli brought me into the bathroom and explained a rather embarrassing predicament.
He Who Is Not Eli had had an accident. The kind of accident that happens when you eat at That Little Mexican Café. We were there with friends and he felt trapped in the bathroom and didn’t know what to do.
I felt a sense of purpose unlike I had in years. This was what fathers were put on the earth for. Teaching sons how to tie a tie. How to change the oil in the family car. And how to dispose of poopy underpants in a public place.
With the care and sobriety of a dad instructing his son how to throw a curve ball, I explained to Not Eli the proper technique for burying underpants in the garbage can and how to lay paper towels over it as camouflage.
He looked at me with genuine awe. It’s honestly one of three times in the last 9 years when I actually felt like a dad. We rejoined the table and this child asked me to never reveal what had happened.
And if any son of mine happens to read this and gets embarrassed, I would like to admit to the world that I’ve absolutely pooped my pants in the last year.