Number Three

The title wasn't meant to raise the hopes of anyone wishing for Caleb and Owen to have a younger sibling, nor was it to cause consternation for anyone who shirks at the idea of Owen as older brother. You'll see.

Owen picked this past week to take the plunge into underwear. That's great and all...but we were at the beach, hundreds of yards from the nearest toilet. Seeing how such advice would lead to a lifetime of confusion, I fought the urge to tell Owen that it's okay sometimes to pee in the ocean. To compound matters and to increase the frequency of our beach to hotel shuttle service, Owen was suffering from, what is known in medical circles as, diarrhea. So Teri and I took turns lugging the kid back to the hotel for him to take care of his newly found business.

The first time this ritual took place, Owen--with his volume at its max--excitedly re-appeared on the beach scene with this proud proclamation: "DADDY, I POOPED ON THE POTTY AND IT WASN'T DIARRHEA!" The Jersey shore, no doubt, shared our joy if not our embarrassment.

A couple hours later, Owen informed us once again that he had to make another pilgrimage. Teri once again accompanied the bladder-challenged boy (so I exaggerated the "took turns" part mentioned above).

When the pee-clock (the clock that sounds an alarm when the time it takes to pee has ended and suggests more formidable business) had expired in my head, I said to Caleb, "It sure has been a long time. I hope he didn't have to go number two."

Caleb, with the sincerity of Hamilton Porter eating a s'more while reflecting on a conquest of the beast, said, "Yeah...or number three."

I knew one. I knew two. Three? I thought there were only two.

(At a whisper, since most at the beach was aware of Owen's situation) I asked, "Caleb...what's number three?"

(At a whisper, taking my cue and perhaps still embarrassed by his brother's declaration) Caleb stoically responded, "Diarrhea."

How high does this numbering system go?