We pack away the train set and blocks together just as the timer for the air fryer chimes. I take Justin into the bathroom to wash his hands, and I note that he doesn’t even glance at the toilet.I wonder how much of that is pure Little distraction, and how much is because he is completely confident with the experience we agreed to try.
My thoughts are interrupted by my Boy racing into the kitchen, telling me his tummy is growling, and I hurry after him with a laugh.
We talk about playing some card games after lunch, the promised chocolate milk little more than a memory and a faint moustache over his upper lip, and I’m not oblivious to him wiggling in his seat.
The not-so-subtle potty dance makes me smile.
Oblivious to my thoughts, though, Justin chatters about playing Go Fish. Moments later, his chair clatters to the ground as he stands up suddenly. “Uh oh!”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, though I think I can guess.
My guess, it turns out, is wrong.
“Kelvin!” he cries, running into the living room to retrieve the abandoned stuffie. The penguin is held out like baby Simba as he is heralded into the room. “Daddy, he didn’t get any lunch!”
“Oh no,” I play along, “he can get some of the fish when we play Go Fish.”
“There’s no fish in Go Fish!”
“Then why is it called Go Fish?”
“’Cause you’re fishing for the cards you need. Silly Daddy.”
I snort, finding him too cute for words.
“Maybe he can have a cookie?” Justin asks slyly.
“Oh,Kelvinwants a cookie for lunch? Does that sound like a healthy choice?”
He sits down and wiggles again. “I ate—uh, I mean,Kelvinate lots of veggies. Um. For breakfast. ’Cause he missed-ed lunch.”
“I guess Kelvin is getting a cookie, then. You wouldn’t also want a cookie, would you?”
His eyes widen at the prospect oftwocookies, his hair flopping into his eyes as he nods quickly. “Please, Daddy?”
I am such a pushover for this Boy.
Once he’s got his cookies, we settle back into our card game. I’m not paying a whole lot of attention to it, though, much more interested in the increased squirming happening in the seat across the table. I don’t know if Justin is even aware of his movement, not with the way he is staring at the cards in his hand, the pink tip of his tongue once again poking out of the corner of his mouth.
“Do you have any fives?” he asks me, then splays his hand out wide to demonstrate the number.
I hand him a five of spades. “Card shark,” I accuse playfully.
He giggles and pairs his fives up. The game continues and we go back and forth a few more times, and I become so used to his unconscious potty dance that I forget all about it, sinking into my competitive mindset for the card game instead.
“Do you have—” I start, then stop as he gasps, his back going ramrod straight.
“Uh oh.” This time the words are a whimper, and Justin’s face is bright red. He looks down, his lower lip quivering. “Daddy…” He sounds so muchLittlerin that moment, his voice wobbly and uncertain.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
“I…I’m…I’m going potty,” his voice cracks, “in my big boy pants.I can’t hold it.”
“Shh,” I round the table and reach his side, hearing the telltale hiss and patter of his accident as he makes a puddle on the chair and floor. I crouch beside him, not caring about the mess on thevinyl, or the ammonia scent. “It’s okay, baby. Accidents happen. Let yourself finish. We got too caught up in playing, didn’t we? And you had a lot to drink today.”
He hangs his head. “I’m sowwy, Daddy.”
My heart clenches at the sniffles and quiet sobs that overtake him. Neither of us anticipated his embarrassment to escalate to shame and sadness, but I probably should have. With all the stress he’s been through lately, the deep regression and release —if you’ll pardon the pun— of something like this was likely to bring out an intense emotional reaction. It gives him a trigger to really break down and cry and let go of everything he’s held on to for the past few months.
