He Called His Shot(s)
The boy called his shot! It’s a big deal. I don’t think I ever called my shot… and actually delivered. Besides that, it was a brave call. He said there’d be six and there were. This isn’t a story about a cocky four-year-old that goes around shooting his mouth off. It’s about a kid that knows himself inside and out.
The kids behaved exceptionally well this past week so we decided to reward them with something a little out of the ordinary. As per usual, they had no clue to where we headed off to Monday evening, but they didn’t think it would be fun when the Prius finally stopped in front of The Bon Ton. If I didn’t know our actual destination I would’ve been bummed, too.
From ladies’ shoes, through Juniors, to fragrances, our daughter lamented about a stomachache or headache or toe ache. My ears were turned off, so I’m not sure which it was. She kept this up until we saw a boy twenty-five feet in the air. We were at a bungee trampoline.
“I feel better,” shot out of our miraculously cured six-year-old’s mouth.
Both kids took advantage of this generous opportunity to get an edge on the competition for the U.S. freestyle ski team in the 2026 winter games in Miami. Visions of the next Speedy Peterson danced through my head as they flipped and bounced and bounced and flipped endlessly. Now they just need to learn to ski.
I got a little jealous watching them, but my big lunch tipped the scale too much to do the adult version. My wife could’ve gone, but chose to keep her feet on the ground. She must be afraid… or smart.
Dinner at Dave & Buster’s followed. The extreme activity must’ve gotten things moving around in the boy’s stomach because right before my Boss Chicken Club arrived he rubbed his belly and stated that he needed to poop. I looked at my wife with chagrin and downed my Corona Light. She smiled and batted her baby blues. We have an unwritten pact; the boy’s mine and the girl’s hers.
I reluctantly left the table and searched for the little boy’s room. After passing by everything from ski-ball to frogger we saw the red neon ‘restrooms’ sign. Just another 150 yards and we’d be in defecation heaven.
The toilet was just past the seventy-two urinals and it was clean… sort of. I did the usual scrub down of the seat and had the pleasure of soaking my fingers in something wet under the seat and it wasn’t Palmolive. This was an example of my carelessness at its best, now I’d probably have to wash my hands.
As per orders from my stomach I advised the boy that we were short on time and that this cut into our gaming and eating. He pondered the situation and came up with a solution.
“I’ll just do six,” he said.
Guilt and panic set in. “Don’t hurry yourself,” I said. “Make sure you finish.”
“I’ll do six,” he said, “and I’ll hurry.”
The boy explained to me that the first one always hurts a little and groaned his way through it.
Another groan. “That’s two.”
Groan again. “That’s number three.”
He continued with this process until he said, “That’s six.”
“I’m done, Daddy.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Make sure you’re done.”
“I said I’m done,” he said.
We wiped up and I counted the neatly dispensed nuggets. There were six. The little guy backed up his words with actions. I felt like Babe Ruth’s dad at that moment, except a little more proud. The Babe only called one shot; my son called six.
We made it back to the table with plenty of time left to devour our grub and shoot aliens and crash cars.
As a parent there are many times in life that your kids make you proud, like an “A” in math, a Nobel prize, or a really hot girlfriend, but this one takes the (urinal) cake. That’s my boy!!!