by Trent Lorcher

Created on: May 21, 2008   Last Updated: May 30, 2008

My wife had gone out for the evening and my 1-year-old son had been whining for about 45 minutes. Nothing I tried seemed to be working and with each successive effort I became more frustrated, which caused him to become more irascible, which in turn caused me more frustration.

I was attempting to construct with my four-year-old daughter a Strawberry Shortcake 63-piece puzzle. My son kept walking up to the table, pointing at the puzzle pieces and crying, which, in turn, caused my daughter to panic, fearing I would actually hand him a piece of the puzzle, turning it into a 62-piece Strawberry Shortcake puzzle.

What really frustrated me about the entire situation was my selfless sacrifice in turning off ESPN, turning on Baby Einstein, and attempting to construct a picture of Strawberry Shortcake watering her strawberry plants (Just as a side note, I discovered the name of Strawberry's cat is Puster. She is also in the puzzle).

I couldn't take it anymore, so I corralled the children, left the unfinished puzzle, took them upstairs, and started to get them ready for bed. Naturally, my daughter did not appreciate my dilemma and complained that the puzzle was not finished. Being the mature adult that I am, I engaged her in an argument.

After a minute and a half, I was no longer her dad, she no longer wanted to play with me, and I wanted to ram my head into the floor. While this was going on, my son continued to whine- and unravel the toilet paper roll.

Realizing I was losing my temper, I removed myself from my daughter's vicinity, as she feebly attempted to strike me with the pink ribbon she had untied from her stuffed kitty cat. I then began undressing my son in order to clothe him in his pajamas. As I wrestled off his clothes and removed his diaper, I discovered exactly why he had been screaming for the past 45 minutes.

Not only was his diaper full of poop, he had the most horrific rash I'd ever seen on a baby's bottom (or an adult's bottom for that matter), which was only exacerbated by me allowing him to wallow around in his own feces for 45 minutes. So at this point of the evening (it was approaching 8:30), my daughter had disowned me, my son was furiously angry with me, and I felt like a complete jackass.

I applied medicine on the rash (after accidentally sticking my hand in baby poop), and let my son air out. As I was disposing of the diaper in the proper receptacle (my neighbor's porch), my daughter yelled out, "Dad, Trenton's peeing on the floor!"

"Is it just on the floor, honey?"

"And my leg too!"

I cleaned up the floor and her leg and continued to get them ready for bed. Luckily two and a half minutes had passed and my daughter had already forgotten that she hated me and had disowned me. She begged me to finish the 63-piece Strawberry Shortcake puzzle with her. I did and I put them to bed.

Admittedly, this night was a bit more hectic than normal, but it can be stated with a degree of accuracy that the hour between 7:30 and 8:30 is often fraught with grumpy, crying children, worn out moms and dads, and a general feeling of wanting the day to end.

Although things get crazy and hectic, there is nothing I enjoy more than being a father. Most of my time with my children is spent joyously and happily, and even the crazy times help me to love them even more.

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