We have been spending time at a local State Park lately, and it has been big fun. BIG, BIG FUN. There's a beach with fake sand next to a lake made by a bulldozer and the short people swim and swim and swim and then they eat and then they swim and swim some more, and then they play with their toy bulldozers and dump trucks and random plastic bowls. And then they swim more and when they're swimming and playing they leave me alone and I chat with the person we've been meeting there and watch the baby eat the fake sand and it is fabulous.
As it happens, there is a little playground a little bit away from the beach, and the middle two (HB and Wee Man, ages 3 and 5, respectively, for the newbies) wanted to play. I left Elliott with the person I chat with, who is not just a random person, by the way, the short people call her Nana. The walking boys and I walked to the playground, where the first thing that HB just HAD to do was use the bathroom.
Dude always announces if it is POOP TIME!!!! or PEE TIME!!!! Very classy, I know, but he does hold doors open for old people so I'm calling it even on this one.
Nobody else was in the bathroom, so I stayed outside in order to keep an eye on Wee Man and Miss O, who was still swimming in the lake. Five minutes later, HB emerged from the bathroom with no pants.
Where is your bathing suit?
Ummm, I lost it.
Where did you lose it? (Certain people in my house have discovered a thrill in flushing items down the toilet.)
Ummm, it's still in the bathroom. I couldn't find any paper towels. He says whilst gesturing towards his lower half which is ENTIRELY COVERED IN, you guessed it, POOP.
Turns out he made it on time to the bathroom stall, but his efforts were thwarted by a MOTH IN THE STALL, OH THE HORROR!!! and he couldn't poop in there but then he had to poop anyway. And so he did. And because he's a responsible little lad of three and a half, he tried to clean it up, subsequently dumping his dump all splat-like on the floor.
And because I'm a responsible little mama of thirty-three, I cleaned it up. And because I'm a nicey little mama, I won't tell you about that. Because EEEEEEEWWWWWw.
I told the lifeguard what happened, and he threw up a little and then called the lady who has the unfortunate job of mopping up such incidences. Turns out her name is Amy, and a bunch of my effbook peeps know her personally and have conveyed my apologies for the unfortunate poop incident.
But really? A moth? Sharting 'em over a moth?
Yeah. So that happened.