Then it happened.
There is nothing for a poor father to do but flee.
So we did, leaving a disgusting trail of water, puke, runny poop and disgusting stares across the pool, through the lobby, into the elevator, and all the way past my front door right into the tub. And people ask me all the time, why don’t you ever write about your youngest? Kinu…? Kinu who? Standing over the three girls, drying them with towels while they laugh at me, “Daddy, you so funny. Why are you crying?”
“Oh, nothing girls. I just remembered I have to go clean it up.