Oh, the Cheetos. I miss the Cheetos. I really wanted them, and I was going to save them for later when Tim and I settle in to watch our next disc of Lost episodes. They were the baked kind, which is not that much healthier, but it always makes me feel better to eat baked snacks. Now they're gone. Where, you ask? Okay, I'll share. But beware, because it's a gruesome story.
The Cheetos are lying forlorn in a little pile in a gravel parking lot somewhere between Aunt Gwen's house and our own. We'd been at Aunt Gwen's to go swimming, and we had a great time. Since she and Uncle Doug are out of town, we'd taken our hamburger patties over to grill, and our corn to boil, and we had a great afternoon of swimming and dinner. Joshua even ate one of the little Jello pudding snacks from the refrigerator (thanks Aunt Gwen!), and was relishing every moment of the afternoon in the way only 3 year-olds can. We packed up, and didn't even have to remind Joshua to go potty before we left - he remembered himself. We thought we were good to go. And we were. Until.
Driving in the car, and then: "Mama, I have to go poop!"
Why do so many of these stories revolve around bodily functions?
"Joshua, we're almost home," Tim replied without missing a beat. But I knew better. I looked back and saw the panicky face, and he said it again, hoping to impart the desperateness of the situation to us. "But I have to poop!" I entered panic mode.
"Tim, he has to go now," I said.
"I'm looking for somewhere to stop," he replied. But Tim was looking for somewhere to stop that had, you know, and actual toilet. Plumbing, utilities, the works. Unfortunately we were beyond that.
"Tim, you have to find somewhere to pull over right now," I said, as Joshua was beginning to wail about not wanting to poop in his pants. And the poor little guy kept interjecting helpful comments like, "Mama, can I poop in there?" about each abandoned-looking warehouse building we passed. After what seemed like ages we finally pulled over into a rocky parking lot, overrun with weeds, and thankfully, empty. I honestly thought that he could just poop over behind the trees, out of the way, and we'd find a way to cover it up. The problem is that Tim has much more delicate sensibilities than that, and was already looking around for a plastic bag or other poop-appropriate receptacle.
"We can't just leave feces on the ground," he said with such disgust that I almost laughed. And now, writing about it, I am laughing. So my poor, poor Cheetos had to go. I dumped them into a little pile underneath the car, and Joshua promptly decided that he no longer needed to poop, but instead needed to eat the Cheetos. Tim corralled him while I rolled the bag several times to, of course, make a toilet. Out of a Cheetos bag. Very unsure of how to proceed, Joshua stuck his little bottom backward a little bit, and Tim propped him up. I'm still wondering how I got stuck with bag duty. (Get it . . . duty? Doody? I'm so lame.) I don't think that there are many things grosser in the world than the heavy thud of the poop landing in the bag, and the smell wafting into my face. So I'm holding the bag, gagging and laughing at the same time, only laughing silently so that my poor little boy wouldn't feel somehow embarrassed, or like he'd done something wrong.
He finished pooping and, if you can believe it, things still got worse. We noticed that he'd actually dripped poop onto his underwear, and urine onto his shorts. Ugh. What can I say? We're not practised side-of-the-road poopers. If I'd been prepared in any way it wouldn't have been so bad. As it was, since I had no extra clothes with us, he ended up wearing one of Jonah's swim diapers home. And I hung the Cheetos bag out the car window until Tim found a dumpster. All I can say is how thankful I was that Jonah was peaceful and happy throughout the ordeal. I can't imagine it all happening with a screaming infant in the picture, too.
And so maybe now I have all of the poop blogging out of my system. I'm not promising anything, because you never know what will happen with the little guys. I'm just saying, I'm ready to move on to the next topic. Next time, I promise, no poop talk.
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