Everybody Poops

Spring in North Carolina is more like the Sahara Desert in the dead of summer.  Yes, we have air conditioning, but not on the practice fields.   It was just another spring evening when Ethan was finishing up his soccer practice.  The temperature at 6:30pm was still in the upper 90s, and I was still in my work attire.  The heat and blazing sun were turning my black Tahari Notched Collar pant suit into a full blown SCUBA suit.  Zachary was sitting in the car with the air conditioning on, playing Zelda on his Nintendo DS.  I was not only watching the soccer practice, in the hopes my little 4 year old Pele would pull off some bicycle kick, but I was also watching Zach in the running air conditioned car with equal focus.  I can only compare my head movements to a spectator of a highly competitive tennis match. Everyone else, 40. Me? Love.

Soccer practice ended and despite the 2 water bottles Ethan went through in an hour, he was still bright red and sweatier than any 4 year old should be. “Mom, can we go to Brewster’s?” Brewster’s is an ice cream place less than a mile from our house.  I say, “Absolutely!”  I have earned it.  We walk to the car and I help Ethan get buckled up in his booster seat.   Zach says, “Wow, you guys are sweaty.”  Well thanks, Dr. Obvious, for making that statement after you just spent the last 45 minutes in the 68 degrees car enjoying your hand held distraction while we were out in the direct sun, panting to keep cool like dogs.    I chose another retort for my 7 year old, “Yes, we are sweaty.”

We arrive at Brewster’s and each of us gets our usual.   Zach gets his small cake batter ice cream in a cone after the obligatory 2 minute argument between a small or a large.  He barely ever finishes the small, why on earth would I allow a large?  Ethan gets his “big boy” cone with cotton candy ice cream (ew!) with sugar eyes and sprinkles for hair.  I have to call it the big boy cone when ordering, while pointing out his height to the person taking his order.   If I call it by its real term, a baby cone, he won’t eat it, and I'll have to pay for his.  The girl hands me my small mint chocolate chip in a sugar cone.  I pay and the boys and I go to the back where there are benches for us, so the ice cream will melt and drip in our laps instead of falling to the concrete.  We pick a bench next to a nice looking couple in their late twenties, sitting with their bulldog.  All three are enjoying their frozen treats.

Ethan’s big boy cone is the smallest, so he finishes first.  Zach and I are still wrestling with ours when Ethan says, “Is there a bathroom here?”  Uh-oh.  I have been down this road before with Ethan. As a matter of fact, I once caught him relieving himself in the bushes at this very establishment.   “No, Ethan, there is not bathroom, why?”  In his little sing songy voice he says, “I have to go poo-oop.”  Both Zach and I jump off the bench, “OK, let’s go!”  As we start walking to the car, in order to avoid a potential disaster, Ethan then says, “Wait. No, it went back in.”

My eyes were as wide as soccer balls when I slowly turned my head to the left to look at the charming couple sitting next to us.  The man is laughing hysterically, and the woman is oblivious. “I am so sorry” I say to the man, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.  The man says, “No worries. The same thing happens to me.”  I laugh uncomfortably.  He turns to his companion, tells her the story, and then she cackles.   If the bulldog could understand human speak, he probably would have been laughing too.