It's Not Weird Until They're 5

Tonight, I was inspired to write another blog post because of the interest of my readers. Within 2 hours, I received 12 comments out of nowhere on a blog that I thought was only read by my wife, my mother and me. Interestingly, the comments were left in the post about circumcision, so being an improviser, I will take that as my suggestion this evening.

This summer has been hot; global warming, polar ice cap melting, Snookie need no bronzer HOT! To combat the heat, Jack and I have made daily hikes to Uncle Louie G’s Italian Ices in Brooklyn. (Get it? Louie G…like Luigi…so clever, or brilliant, or the most retarded play on words ever). This establishment proves that the authentic Italians moved back to Italy and the “paisano” Italian wannabes completely migrated from 18^th Avenue to Staten Island and Jersey. I can imagine little old mustachioed Italian grandmothers turning over in their graves.

Uncle Pretend Italian Ices has a bunch of flavors, and at the beginning of summer, Jack and I vowed to taste every one. Really, I made the commitment, and he hasn’t complained. When we get our ices, we must begin the eating immediately because once we hit the two block mark of our three block trek, we are drinking Louie G’ Italian Ices Soup. Getting to our porch, we often find ourselves covered in sticky chocolate jelly ring or mango madness slop that requires a full head to toe cleaning.

I’m still weary of showering with a child, but my cousin who has two kids of his own, assures me that it’s not weird until they're 5 years old. So, we strip down and our post ice ritual begins. I start the shower and Jack jumps into my arms. We rinse under the shower together. Then, I put him on the floor of the tub to play while I soap, rinse, repeat. Afterwards, I clean him and we dry off together.

The other day, while in the process of rinsing, I look down and catch Jack staring up at me with a look of bewilderment and wonder. I notice that with my back to the shower the water is cascading down my chest, past my belly and off my penis like a cherub fountain on Uncle Louie G’s front lawn. The stream of water that appears to be ski jumping off my slope is landing on my son, who realizes that I realize what’s happening. He looks at me, mouth gaping, and says, “Dada making pee pee on Jack!” And that’s why I now shower facing the other way.