I don't know how I blocked it out; it wasn't until a phone call from Jr and his seemingly innocent "So, has Trot peed anywhere new lately?" that it all came painfully crashing back to me. I sort of understand now how some kid whose Dad woke him up back in 2003 to watch the Red Sox finally beat the Yankees only to watch a short while later the sickening scene of Aaron F*****g Boone skipping around the bases while Tim Wakefield left the mound a beaten man and woke up the next morning with no memory of it ever happening.
Sort of like my first real date at the age of 16 can't remember my name, yet I can't watch "Karate Kid II" without bursting into tears. It really is amazing how the human mind works; she has no idea who I am some 24 years later and I can't even utter the name Peter Cetera without turning into Red Foxx, circa 1972.
As my breathing grew shallow and the ringing in my ears grew louder after Rich asked his question, it all came back to me like some bad episode of "Kojak" where the guy with amnesia slowly put it together.
I remembered Ciera, in a eerily calm voice saying "Dad? You may want to see this.", Trot running behind the sofa and Rakes yelling "CAN I SEE IT?" while I walked to the bathroom door in a fog. There, right before my eyes, was the evidence in full, disgusting display.
My little prince of a boy had turned into some deranged version of a chimpanzee and had spread his poop all over the bathroom wall.
I don't know why he did it or when it happened or even if he knew what he'd done; I was too busy trying not to throw up, pass out, or beat his tail senseless to ask those kind of questions. Thankfully I'm married to a rock who immediately took charge, told me to sack up, and proceeded to interrogate that child in a manner that would make Dennis Franz green with envy.
I've taken three things from this latest incident.
One? We may need professional help with this one.
Two? I'm starting to think he is an alien sent here to drive us all crazy one by one.
Three? Rich is right; I'm a heart attack looking for an ER to land in.
Oh yeah; Number Four?
I'm sending a manuscript to Oliver Stone as we speak.
'Cause he's the only person I can think of that will believe any of this is possible.