The story behind the name:

One evening, at the Old Broadway Grill in Fargo, North Dakota, my brother caught the end of a Mountain Dew commercial. In the commercial, a Mountain Dew drinker was riding a shark in the ocean. My brother exclaimed in surprise, not realizing that it was a commercial. When I told him he declared "All I saw was a guy coming out of the shower with a shark." Of course, he meant water, but the idea of showering with sharks has been with me ever since.

Monday, August 6, 2012

From Closet to Toilet

Harper likes to hide. Sometimes when I come home Mark will tell me that she is hiding. Then I have to go find her. Other times she will just spontaneously sneak around and hide. This story starts with hiding. It ends someplace much... different.

On Sunday Harper had been playing quietly in her room for some time. After some nice extended quiet time, I hear her feet on the hardwood floor in the hallway. They patter quickly from her room and then stop. But she's not in the living room. I hear some suspicious noises. Noises from behind the recliner. Harper is doing something behind the recliner. She thinks she is sneaky. Mark and I both ignore her.

After another few moments, her feet patter back down the hallway. She dodges into our bedroom. Then... silence.

Me: "She's in our room."

Mark gets up and walks toward the bedroom. He goes in.

All of a sudden:


Harper screams. It's a pretty good scream. Sort of a cross between "Oh God I'm really scared!" and "Oh God this is fun!"

Mark comes out laughing.

He says, "She was hiding in your closet behind your clothes. I scared her good. I walked past your closet and then back out. Then I snuck back and jumped down in front of her."

I laughed. It was a good scream.

Time passes. Mark and I are hanging out in the living room with Tegan. Then... footsteps running into the bathroom. Nothing really out of the ordinary. Harper is frequently discovering that she has to go to the bathroom RIGHT NOW.


"OH NO."

Usually not something you want to hear from your three-year-old.

Mark jumps up and jogs to the bathroom.

I catch bits of conversation.

"Why...? Where is it...? Oh god... Okay... let's clean up..."

I yell, "What's up?"

"She pooped in her shorts."


Mark appears with said shorts held gingerly in his hand.

I look at them. It's bad.

I decide they are a lost cause. "Just throw them in the garbage."


"Yeah," I say. "She has other shorts. Wait... what about her underwear?"
"She wasn't wearing any."

"Uh... oh, well, that's good I guess."

Mark heads to the garage, then stops and turns.

"You know," he says, "I can't help but feeling that this is sort of my fault... You know, earlier, when I made her scream..."

He chuckles and holds up the shorts.

"I think I scared the shit out of her."

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