Warning: This column is gross.
Mikey and I were enjoying the unseasonably warm weather last week, sitting on a bench near the town park as he finished an ice cream cone before heading for the playground. As chocolate dripped down his chin and wrist, the 6-year-old turned to me and declared, “I have to go potty.”
When asked, he informed me it was the kind “where you have to wipe.”
I glanced around and saw a porta potty as our only option, so I asked him if he thought he could finish his ice cream before we went in there, seeing as I didn’t want to bring the ice cream into the outdoor bathroom box, nor did I want to buy him another ice cream.
“Um, yeah, I guess,” was his answer.
I was not too confident, but offered, “OK, let’s head over there while you finish.”
Well, once we got there he shoved the rest of the cone in his mouth and attempted to speak around it, informing me that he no longer had to go. “It went away,” were his exact words.
“No, buddy. I assure you it’s still there. You may not feel like you have to go anymore, but you do. Trust me.” I promised him that if he sat down, he would produce something.
He was unconvinced.
“Mikey, it didn’t just vanish. It’s still there. And if you start playing on the playground you’re going to have to stop to run back to the bathroom, and you could have an accident. Just try.”
Well, I lost the fight and we ended up on the playground where, about 7 minutes later, he started running with his hand on his butt saying he had to go.
Back at the porta potty.
“Mom, come in with me.”
“Nah, I’m good. You don’t need an audience. I’ll wait out here.”
I lost that fight, also – likely due to the fact that it was getting dark and, let’s be honest, who wants to be in a porta potty all alone in the dark?
So, I entered the tiny stall and immediately held my breath.
“Mom, turn around.”
I took 17 tiny steps in a circular motion to get myself in the outward-facing direction while hearing Mikey shuffle around behind me. When I turned my head to remind him not to touch anything, I found him sitting bare butt right on the seat, hands curled around the black plastic on the sides of his legs.
Awesome.
I turned back around – my face was so close to the door that if I simply leaned forward an inch I could rest my forehead against it – and listened to all the sounds to be made by a 6-year-old boy doing something that “requires a wipe” in a porta potty, all the while knowing I didn’t have any hand sanitizer, soap, disinfectant, car cleaner, not even a bottle of water to rinse off with.
Wonderful.
Mikey finished going to the bathroom, completed the aforementioned wipe, shimmied his pants back up and we emerged from the porta potty, possibly with dysentery. Before running off to spread his germs all over the playground (you’re welcome) he turned to me and said, “Mom, it kinda looked like my ice cream cone.”
Tell me you have a 6-year-old boy without telling me you have a 6-year-old boy.
Holly Crocco is editor of the Putnam County Times/Press. She can be reached at editorial@putnampresstimes.com.
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