BY TONY ZIMBARDI—LE MONS

Kid Catastrophes

“Dad, Papa, I’m sick, I just threw up!” It’s midnight and Antonio and I have just fallen asleep. The light from the bathroom is streaming down the hall and into our bedroom; Edward is calling for us. We get up and walk down the hall. Edward’s sitting on the toilet, vomit runs down the front of his pajamas and a huge pile rests at the base of his feet on our bathroom’s wall to wall carpet. This is the last thing I was expecting to manage, I think to myself.

“Good night, sweetie. Feel better,” I tell Edward as I kiss him on the forehead, now safely tucked back in his bunk. I head back to the bathroom and get down on my hands and knees and begin to clean up. “Well, he clearly ate too many cherries and perhaps too many cheese dogs at the barbecue based on the evidence,” I chuckle to Antonio, deciding to laugh rather than cry as we dig the small chunks out of the carpet. “It’s all part of parenthood, sweetie,” he reminds me.

“Dinner’s ready,” I call the following evening as Antonio and I put the food on the table. “Make sure you wash your hands,” I remind them before the boys come to the table. This night we have a nice leisurely meal with dessert.

An hour later, I’m finishing up the dishes while Antonio is in the next room on the computer. I pass him on my way toward the bedrooms. “Oh, no” I yell, walking quickly toward the steps. “I hear water running!” I take the stairs in a leap, and run into the bathroom to find both sinks completely filled with water; the faucet is on, full speed. The countertop is one solid sheet of water and its pouring over the front of the vanity and down into the carpet.

“Someone left the water running when they came in here to wash their hands!” I holler. Antonio followed by Edward and then Jaime run in and stand behind me in a line. Antonio turns to Jaime: “Did you do this?” “Yes, Dad,” Jaime sheepishly replies. “Go sit on the sofa!” Antonio commands. “But, dad.” “I said, go sit on the sofa, now!” Jaime runs out of the bathroom crying and yelling: “You hurt my feelings Dad when you yell at me, you hurt my feelings!” He’s sobbing. I chuckle at his sweet, honest communication, again, opting to laugh rather than cry.

Like the night before, Antonio and I find ourselves on our hands and knees cleaning up a mess in the bathroom. “Well sweetie,” he reminds me, “How many times did you or I hit a ball through a window, or break a favorite plate belonging to our mother? This is what kids do, it’s all part of childhood.” “I know honey,” I chuckle again with that mixture of laughter through tears, patting our bath-towels into the soaked carpet, “I know.”

In the next installment: More adventures with the boys

Tony Zimbardi Psy.D. is a psychotherapist in private practice in West Hollywood. More of his writing can be found at www.drtonyzimbardi.com.