Saturday nite

The kids and I went on a date Saturday nite. Dinner and the Park. The perfect casual Saturday evening. (It's been awhile since I've been on a real date obviously.)

When we arrived at the park, I found my park bench and pulled Leah out of her car seat and up in my lap. About 10 minutes into the play session, Devon needed to go potty. I suggested that we just go home. (Park bathrooms = dirty, stinky, gross.) Of course the code word, "home," sent him immediately climbing up the ladder and ignoring my suggestion. So... he went on playing. Five minutes later....

"Mommy, poo-poo's coming!"

My thought process - Oh, please don't poop in your underwear. Please don't ..... Don't panic, maybe if we can get to the bathroom he can make it in time. Who am I kidding? He's already walking bow leg-ged.

So as Devon headed toward me, I called for Ella, and motioned my one free arm (other arm was holding Leah) for us all to run. I opened the dreaded park bathroom door... dirty, stinky, gross! I moved a rock over to keep the door open, instructed Ella to sit on the concrete beside the open door, and plopped Leah in her lap. (Ella is only 3.) Devon waited by the toilet.

Thought process - Please let it be solid.

I attempted to pull down his pants... dirty, stinky, GROSS! A half-formed brownish-orange mass smeared down his leg. I quickly pulled off his shoes, then shorts, and then his nasty underwear. I propped him up on the toilet.

Thought process - I need wet-wipes and lots of them!

I left Devon on the toilet, Ella and Leah on the concrete, and ran for the baby-bag which was still on the bench. (No, I didn't want to leave my children for 1/2 a second, but I had too.) I raced back in the bathroom to find Devon off the toilet with poop all over his fingers.

Thought process - Stay calm. A happy poop-covered toddler is better than a crying poop-covered toddler.

I started wiping every visible orange streak on his body.

"Ella, are you and Leah, ok?

This phrase had already been repeated multiple times by now. I continued to wipe.

Dry-heave, wipe, dry-heave, wipe.

I put Devon's shorts and shoes back on, tossed his spider-man underwear in the trash can, and loaded everyone back in the van.

"Devon, please don't touch anything. Why don't you just pray."

He kept his fingers inter-locked the whole way home.

Ella refused to take a bath with him that nite.