Visit to the Vault, by Russ

After being awoken by an attractive young lady, who is not my wife (she was ringing the doorbell, not nudging me), I was left to start the day a touch wild eyed. (I don't know who the lady was looking for, to my knowledge, the person has never lived here. However, she is the second person who has come here looking for this person.)

I waited until TV time was over to get the kids out and moving. Specifically, moving to the bank (with the promise of the library if they behaved). I had to hit the safety deposit box to review some paperwork therein.

So we arrive at the bank and I gain access to the vault (not nearly as impressive as it sounds). Mr. B starts quietly throwing his balls all over the vault and Miss L is removing all the little green markers from the keyholes of the boxes. Some bank teller is not going to be happy.

I let the kids run wild in the vault while I filter through the crap that the Wife and I deemed important. I managed to put my hands on my Life Insurance policy fairly quickly and copied down the needed info. Some notes on the application led me to believe that I have more policies. Policies that I could not find.

There I find myself with three piles of paperwork, My Stuff, Wife's Stuff, and Other. Mr. B decided that now is a great time to announce, "Me go Poopy!" (At least we are alone in the vault.) My first fear is that he was referring to poopy in the past tense. Since there was no green cloud about him, we were safe for the moment. Now, I have to pack up all the paperwork and lock up my box to take Mr. B to the toilet.

So we are wandering about the bank looking for the facilities. Mind you, this is a pretty small branch, it should not be hard to find it. After searching frantically for a few minutes, I enlisted the help of an employee.

It seems that, to dissuade rabble from coming in off the street, they have no public restrooms. I told the employee fine, but I have a three year old who just pulled me from the safety deposit box room to go poopy. (Yes, I said "poopy", I must be a Dad.) The employee took pity on me and told me where it was.

We get to the bathrooms and Mr. B bolts for the ladies room. Fortunately one of the tellers was leaving at the moment and was able to redirect him. Upon entering the mens room, we ensconced ourselves in the handicapped stall (more room for everybody). The toilet seat, per usual in a public facility, was the split kind. Mr. B had never sat on one of those before. Add to it that I didn't pack his children's toilet seat (with handy dandy splash guard!) and I was left to cantilever my son on the commode while my hand got to play the role of "splash guard".

Ahh, the shit they don't tell you about becoming a parent.

Speaking of shit, there was none. I got my hand pissed on for nothing.

Oh well, I was able to finish up in the vault and get the kids to the library.