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Posted on November 9, 2016 - by writerman
Last night, while election results were rolling in, my two-year-old pooped his pants. This morning, I realized that Wyatt’s potty-training accident and America’s election were one in the same. And so I write this note both to my little guy and to my United States of America:
Hey you – we need to talk about what happened last night.
You shit your pants.
It was bad. Real bad. I mean, when I saw the horror of what you’d done, I questioned everything. Was this all my fault? Were you not ready? Should we just burn the house down and move back to Canada? Will we ever be able to scrub off that godawful smell?
I’ll admit that I overreacted in the moment. I was angry and confused and disappointed and disgusted and more than a little scared. I honestly couldn’t understand how something so terrifying could have happened so quickly. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, and that half bottle of bourbon was probably a little excessive, and I’m sorry. But, now that I’ve had a moment to recover and reflect, there’s something I want you to know:
I love you, and we’re going to get through this together.
I know that underneath all of the rancid, hateful shit you smeared all over yourself last night is a heart full of wonder and compassion and joy and empathy. A beautiful soul that has made me proud so many times before and will make me proud again.
It’s going to take some time and some work and it won’t be easy, but I believe in you. I know you can do better. I know you want to do better. And you will. But I need you to understand something: if you want to wear big kid pants and be in charge of yourself, you need to take that responsibility seriously. When you are ready to do that, we can move forward to a brighter future.
Years from now, when we look back on this dark time in our lives, Shitstorm 2016 will be our lowest point, but also a turning point.
Now let’s put on our hazmat suits and get to work cleaning this shit up.
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