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Life Lesson: The Boy Who Cried Poop

It’s been a while.

I’m too scared to check my blog stats so I have no idea if anyone visits here any longer.

Because that’s EXACTLY how I deal with unpleasant things I’m terrified of. . .ignore, deny, avoid.

Except sometimes a situation is so nefarious, so dire, so urgent it MUST be immediately addressed. . .

Like when your three-year-old laughs and laughs and laughs for days on end screaming, “Mackinley poops in the park!  Mac poops in the park!  Bears poop in the woods!  Mac poops in the park!  Bah-hahahaha!”

And then one day said kid actually POOPS.  IN.  THE.  PARK.

Sunday, we made our usual rounds to North Point State Park, the grocery, Target.  We’ve been reserving Sunday evenings for a walk through Patterson Park because the Pagoda is open and Mac LOVES going to the top of the Pagoda and it’s usually a really enjoyable way to end the weekend.

Shortly after exiting the Pagoda, Chris and I both noticed Mac seemed to be struggling a little. . .Clenching if you will.

“He has to poop!” I hissed at Chris.  “What if he poops?”

“There’s no way he’s pooping in the park.  He only poops at home.  The little guy is some kinda’ poop camel.  He can go days without pooping,” Chris whispered.

“His control is remarkable,” I marveled as I watched Mac brace himself against a tree, presumably for increased sphincter control.

“Mac?” I called.

“Mr. Brown Squirrel UP!” Mac shouted in an effort to detract from all the clenching.

*aside – I want to come up with a song about Mr. Brown Squirrel in the gist of Mr. Brownstone. . .What’s wrong with me?!

“Mac. . .?” I repeated.

“He’s fine, Deni.”  Chris said quietly.

And he indeed seemed to be fine.

Until he headed our way. . .

“Clean up poops?”

Really?  REALLY?!

“Is there really poop, Mac?” I asked.

Chris immediately snatched Teddy from the stroller.  “Going to show Teddy some milkweed while you help Mac.”

Well played.

I plopped myself down on a slightly obscured stepping stone in the rain garden and began the task of ridding Mac of his skid marked unders en plein air.

Wipe.  Wipe.  Wipe.

“All good!” I declared wishing I had some hand sanitizer.  “So, I’m going to head home ahead of you guys. . .get dinner started since I have the travel to the funeral tomorrow.”

I walked briskly towards home.  Fired up the stove.  I have at least 15 minutes. . .maybe more if Chris gets on a good bird near the boat lake. . .

But. . .

Sonofabitch!

Dinner was still cold and they all came crashing in the front door.

“Poops!” Chris roared.

“Poops!” Mac repeated.  “Get out!  Clean up poops!”

“More poops?  Really?”  I gasped.  “In the PARK?!”

“Yes.” Chris declared.  “In. The. Park.  A LOT more poops.”

And as the smell of reheated meatloaf mingled with the smell of crap in my kitchen, I couldn’t help but bitterly chuckle. . .

All those days Mac had been screaming about pooping in the Park, I never believed him. . .because he never did. . .

And then. . .

He had to ride home in the stroller sitting on a steaming heap of turds. . .

He was the boy who cried “Poop”!

Here’s hoping lesson learned. . .

Because I hate classic fairy tales. . .