The Worst Question of All Time at 4 AM

Hi everyone,

Last night was, by turns, the most disgusting and hysterical night yet in the Lesko household. (For all you guys trying to swat that one out of the park, you can suck it.) To set the stage a little bit, I need to share with you the plight of Max our dog.

Max is 10 months old, and the boy thrives on the time he spends with the family. Unfortunately, he also spends a lot of time alone. During our time at work he's in the back yard, during the night he's locked in his kennel. So for most of his day he rocks it old school solo. Now we can see him get depressed each time we put him outside or in his kennel, and damnit if he isn't such a good dog that it just breaks our heart, so we decided we were going to try to do something about all of his alone time.

The first step in operation Assimilate Max was to get him a portable doggy bed. The plan was to put the bed in his kennel for a while, then move it bit by bit to where we wanted him to spend the night, but ultimately allowing him the freedom to walk the house. The first step in moving the bed is to keep the door to the kennel closed, but unlocked, to see how Max will do with his new boundaries. Well last night around 1 am I woke up to hear Max roaming around the bedroom, and as I'm sure most of you understand my commitment to operation Assimilate Max waned strongly after being woken up in the middle of the night. I went and put him back in his kennel and locked the door. As I went back to bed, I thought I smelled something awful, so I checked the floor as best I could in the dark, and eventually brushed it off to Max having gas.

Fast Forward

4 AM

Mickaela is crying in her bedroom, and Emily and I are participating in our nightly standoff to see who loves our child more than sleep. Since I had already gotten up once with Max I steeled myself to out wait mom, and eventually, just according to my plan, Emily leaves the bed to see to Mickaela. About halfway down the hall I hear Em cry out, and being half asleep I sat bolt upright and asked if she was ok. Her response, "Mickey come here!" Thinking I'm walking into some kind of catastrophic hallway injury I dash from my bed to Emily in the hallway, and find her framed by the bathroom light. As I survey the scene I begin to notice things in slow motion, first Emily is standing as expected on one leg, holding her other leg as if injured. Next, there is something on the floor which she clearly stepped on. Third, that thing on the floor is a pile of poop. Fourth, Emily is not injured. As the two of us stood there in the middle of the night starting at each other over a pile of poop the following exchange took place.

Emily in a whiney voice: Mickey, what is that?

Me very matter of factly: It's poop.

Emily in an even more whiney voice: Who's poop is it?!?!

At that moment I caught a clear glimpse into the world Emily lives in. Living with a dog, and two Lesko boys, when she comes across a pile of poop on the floor she just isn't sure who it belongs to. "Who's poop is it?" is clearly the worst question that can possibly be asked at 4 AM. There is no scenario where that question starts or ends well.

Only God can possibly redeem such a warped reality. Please pray for her.

To my darling wife, I know I've done many things but to this day I have not, nor do I ever plan to, poop on the floor of our house. If the time ever comes where I do poop on the floor, I promise to tell you where before you step in it. I could have written this into our wedding vows but in my wildest dreams I couldn't imagine the scenario where such a thing would need to be clarified.

I love you, I'm sorry you stepped in dog poop barefoot. Have a good day at work.