Saturday Afternoon

Saturday.

I am standing in the kitchen. Ethan is in the bathroom screaming my name. He just had a bowel movement and he needs someone, preferably me, to wipe his ass. Gracie is cradled precariously in one of my arms, screaming for reasons only her 7 month old mind can discern. I hear a gurgling sound and look down just in time to catch undigested formula spurt from her mouth onto my shoulder. With my other hand I hold my cell phone and attempt to listen to the latest voicemail from a disgruntled employee who has been calling me all day, growing increasingly more hostile as he grows increasingly more drunk. My father stands in front of me trying to tell me something but between the screams of the children and the slurring voice on the phone I can't hear him. Something about a plastic container. I point to the phone in my ear in case he doesn't notice it and what it implies, and purposely tune him out. The voice on the phone is describing how much of a bastard I am. My father keeps talking though, and I can tell by the look on his face that whatever he wants, he wants it badly. Suddenly Sam appears, and she moves quickly past my father to the bathroom. I hear Ethan scream that he wants his Daddy but that doesn't stop Sam, and within moments she appears in the kitchen with Ethan in her arms. A look of relief washes over my father and he shuffles as fast as he can past her. The angry voicemail dribbles to an end as the door to the bathroom slams shut. Gracie is now smiling - her lips crusted with white vomit. Ethan whimpers.
"What was that all about?" I ask Sam, nodding toward the bathroom.
Your father was asking for a plastic container to pee in, Sam says. He had to go to the bathroom but Ethan was in there and he didn't think he could wait. He thought he would wet his pants.

Saturday.

This my life.