Birthday Horror Story Part II

"Oh my gosh! What are we going to do?" The question isn't really directed at anyone. It is just giving voice to the incessant whirl going on in my brain as I watch the poop continue to travel out of Griffin's shorts and down his legs. We are in public, I mean very public, people walking by kind of public with no bathroom in sight. Getting him the prerequisite 75 yards from here to there seems a monstrous task. In fact merely picking him up appears undo-able.

"It's on my foot!" It feels like he is yelling.

"Shh, okay, okay," I soothe, and to avoid drawing attention to ourselves, I maneuver my body between him and the passersby, shielding him from sight as much as possible.

Thomas has quickly disappeared inside and now returns with a fistful of napkins. We've determined that we are going to have to stop the leakage before we can get him inside to the bathrooms. Those underwear are going to have to come off. While Thomas attempts that behind a bench and a pillar, I am in charge of cleaning the remaining excrement off the pavement. With some napkins. I nearly vomit. The napkins go in the garbage can, and I momentarily consider the poor minimum-wage teenager that will have to empty that. It is only briefly though; I've got bigger fish to fry.

"Hi, do you have a plastic bag I can have?" At least we can wrap the nasty underwear up before we throw them away. Thousands of diaper changes have taught me something. I head back outside with my begged-off bag to find Thomas gingerly peeling the layers off the boy. Poop is everywhere. Many napkins later, Griffin is relatively cleaner, at least when compared to where we started, but we definitely need a bathroom, and to get there we are going to have to pass many, many more people. I hate the people. This would all be so much easier without them.

"We can't very well carry him in naked. We're going to have to put the shorts back on at least," is my adamant suggestion.

"They are a mess."

"Well, what do you want to do? What are our options here?" Our discussion has taken on the seriousness of nuclear peace treaty negotiations.

The pants go back on, smearing more poop on his leg. More napkin swiping ensues. Then the boys disappear inside to find the bathroom. My job is to keep my eye on Logan.

Two seconds later, Thomas is back outside, without Griffin. His annoyance is palpable. "They are out of paper towels in the men's room. Will you go get some out of the ladies'room?" He has left our feces covered son alone in a stall of a public bathroom, but who am I to judge? Logan is deep inside the jungle gym, happy and oblivious. It will take two minutes to get the paper towels he needs.

With a quick look back I head inside with him, clean the ladies' room out of paper towels, and hustle back outside. Not being able to see her right away, I start calling her name, yelling up inside the slides and staircases. No answer. I call again. Still nothing. Are you kidding me?

In the next moment I turn to find Logan coming around the corner with another family apparently helping her find her loser set of parents. I run up to her. "Oh, honey! I was just calling for you!" She is sobbing. The good parents are obviously unimpressed with me. I offer them a lame thank you but no explanation. There is only so much humiliation one person can take in an evening.

Twenty minutes later Thomas and Griffin are back outside. And here is where we cross way over the white trash line. I know it. I am fully aware that the next sentence may alter your perception of us forever. I don't care. Here it is: We go miniature golfing anyway. Despite the fact that our son's shorts have been rinsed out in a public toilet, we put them back on him and press forward, because there is no way I am going to do this all over again next weekend! No way, no how, people. It has taken us two days to get here, and now that we have faced the jaws of hell, we are going to finish it whatever it takes!

Damn it! We came here to have good time, and we are all going to have a good time, do you hear me! Now get out there in your nasty poopy pants and start golfing! Oh, and by the way, happy birthday, honey!"