The sultry siren song of a summertime weekend made me do it. It was 5 p.m. on Friday night and still 80 degrees out. Music in the Park was calling our name. It was the perfect recipe for an evening out â€“ weâ€™d hit up the local sandwich shop and run the energy off on the slides.
And as in an environment as such, the more the merrier â€“ some friends decided to join us.
I should have known the evening was off to a rocky start when said friend slipped each muppet a pack of Frozen themed jelly beans. Translated into the system of a pre-dinner 4-year-old, this was a fun-sized bag of street ice.
But I was drunk on sunshine.
We procured sustenance from the fancy deli (bread, meat, cheese AND NOTHING ELSE), and our little party headed toward the pavilion at the park. The step we missed in this play-by-play plan was the potty break.
This was because my so-called â€œfriendâ€ plied both boys with a large number of San Francisco Giants stickers. No one could be bothered to answer natureâ€™s call when there were stickums on hand!
There was a momentary stall when I encouraged a potty break pause. Apparently I was not clear in the specifics of my suggestion.
Because, without hesitation, pants were dropped. Like a live-action Manneken Pis, a very bare bottom mooned us all in relief. Be one with nature?
When I turned around, his brother was covered at least one sheet of orange and black paraphernalia and had begun papering the surrounding picnic area.
The basic breadwiches were downed in approximately three bites â€“ and the boys were off! Ramps to race down, stairs to leap on, railings to ride and a giant grassy knoll to run amuck. With the wisteria-covered canopy gracefully enshrining the pavilion, it was the idyllic setting for kids to be wild and run free while the alleged adults inhaled the remainder of their dinner with a false sense of lingering civilized decorum.
A trip to the â€œblue parkâ€ (owing to the safety foam ground) was promised on good behavior.
But suddenly all activity ceased. My son stood stock-still. Unusual by any standard, unfathomable for a kid in the thralls of a fresh-air summer sugar high.
He began whining for me and pointing at his shoe.
â€œOh god no. Please no,â€ I thought. But it was.
Poop. Puddles of poop.
Dripping from every angle of his pants and oozing into his little kid Crocs.
Doctorâ€™s orders have the little man on two full doses on Miralax per day in an attempt to regulate some of the toilet-training resistance weâ€™ve been fighting. My kid picked a very inopportune time to clear out his colon â€“ WITH AUTHROITY â€“ further proving this is a total control issue.
Well, shit. I am *that* parent. So very much literal shit. (Oh, how I immediately longed for the good old days (weeks ago) where we were merely pooping in ball pits.)
My friends laughed uproariously; they thought such an incident was fantabulous story fodder â€“ an evening made to laugh over when they next visited companions with well behaved, potty-pooping, preschoolers.
I was mortified beyond belief. HE POOPED ALL OVER THE GROUND!
Pants were disposed of; the underwear may have disintegrated into the abyss. An entire pack of Pampers sensitive tushy wipes wasnâ€™t even up to the task. I used an entire value-size bottle of Purell.
Park play was canceled. Possibly forever, as I donâ€™t know that we will ever be allowed to show our faces (or barenaked butts bandied about) again.
At least shocked onlookers will think the poopetrator is a Giants fan. Hooligans.
UPDATE: We may have had a breakthrough, folks! Heard a little voice from the downstairs bathroom this morning, “Daddy! You come help me poop!” By his very own 4-year-old volition!
UPDATE 2: Received notification from preschool that a pebble of poop touched down in the tiny potty! Never did I think I’d feel such excitement over a crappy day.