So, I'm sitting on the couch over my neighbor's house today, lightly baked out of my mind on whatever drug was interacting with whichever other drug in my body, when my son runs in, arms outstretched, hands open (and filthy, which is the norm lately). He has tears in his eyes, but not yet streaming down his face. His voice has the tone of urgency that automatically draws your attention away from the Steelers pounding the snot out of Houston (a feat that in my household is darn near impossible.) Suddenly, the fog of drugs surrounding my brain clears, and it instantly races through the myriad contingencies; has my daughter fallen down a hill in the backyard? Is one of the kids in the neighborhood out back laying there screaming, with bones sticking out of his leg? Is our house on fire? Did one the other kids in the neighborhood give him a shot in the pills?
Me: "Calm down Bubba, it's OK. What happened?"
Bubba: (His name is Creighton, but I've called him Bubba since he was pretty much a day old. And now it has stuck, much to the chagrin of my wife, who wanted a name for the boy that could not be shortened into a nickname.) "I was outside, (remember he's out of breath from running so fast inside), and we were playing, and um, I farted, and poop came out!"
Me: (as calmly as I can muster, without laughing) "It's OK Bubba, no big deal. Go upstairs and clean yourself up. We'll get you some new underwear."
Long story short, he got himself cleaned up, we got new drawers put on the boy, and he went out to play before the end of the quarter.
It feels so good to be a dad again.