I Sharted While Trying To Potty Train My Kid And Now He Will Never Respect Me

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We all take squatting down and doing our business for granted, but early on in life, we had to deal with the transitional struggle from crapping our pants to dumping in the porcelain throne. When you have kids of your own, you know from the moment you change that first diaper that you’ll eventually have to be their potty-training Phil Jackson; teaching them the three-point offense of squat, push, and wipe. I’m going through the process right now with my firstborn and things had been going as smooth as possible until a few days ago.

My offspring isn’t exactly game ready. He’s still in the spring training stages of being a responsible bathroom user, but making solid progress under my tutelage. That morning while watching some cartoons, he announced that he needed to drop diaper and let it rip. You spend weeks and weeks teaching them the awareness to know when to open the gates so obviously we’ve already come pretty far. I sat, waited, and sipped my coffee, unaware that disaster was about to strike.

While my son sat on his plastic imitation toilet that looks like a frog (It’s essentially a frog eating shit – 9-year-old me finds it hilarious) I decided to join in on the fun. I had some coffee and eggs that morning so I was admittedly a bit gassy. I let one rip myself to let my little one know that I too was releasing some demons, albeit in gaseous form. Except it wasn’t just gas.

Much like taking a Patron shot that gives you the mouth sweats or taking a step unknowingly on a giant heap of dog shit, things you allow your body to do sometimes result in an unintended backfire. Like the aforementioned shot, which should’ve gone down smooth but instead caused your mouth to feel like it was melting, this fart brought unwelcome consequences.

I knew it as soon as it happened. It’s like taking a massive hack with your driver and as soon as you make contact knowing that ball is slicing towards the water. Except in this case, the water was liquid fart. It’s not the first time I shouldn’t have trusted a fart and it certainly won’t be the last. It would’ve just been a minor mistake, except in present company. Upon hearing what sounded like an elephant hit with a tranquilizer dart escape my ass, my kid looked up and immediately looked up at me. And he knew.

He knew that his old man wasn’t practicing what he preached. He didn’t say anything, besides a small giggle to acknowledge the moment, but that was enough to know that this was the shart that shook the Earth. He knew that wasn’t just a fart and that I was now dealing with a “Code Brown.” Our Master/Padawan relationship was forever altered.

My DNA replica was handling his business like a champ; about ready to calmly walk over to the toilet, dump out his doo-doo-butter and flush like a normal person. It should’ve been a celebratory occasion (We celebrate like the Twins won the World Series every time). Instead, he had to watch the man who was supposed to be his teacher and a grown ass man walk like a geriatric over to the restroom to do some damage control.

In the short term, things were fine but there’s just been long term damage that just can’t be repaired. Every time my son sits down on his potty he stares up at me with a smug glare that says, “Look at me being responsible with my excrement, can’t say the same for you, old man. Quit waiting there with wipes you Rick Astley lookin’ motherfucker, go get me some milk bitch.”

It’s like a rookie cop who found out his admired veteran partner was taking dirty money on the side. We may get through potty training alright, but my kid will never respect my word when it comes to bathroom usage again..

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Kyle Bandujo

The artist formerly known as Crash Davis. My kid doesn't think I'm funny.

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