Not For the Weak of Stomach

Took the 3 boyz (and a friend of Eldest's who slept over) to the local playground this morning. At 8:30am.

Needless to say, shocker, we were the first ones there and had the place to ourselves.

The boyz were all up early, and started playing baseball outside this morning at 7:45am. I thought (silly me) that they would be relatively quiet. Until I heard screaming, "Ohhhh, that's a bomb! Gone!" over and over again.

Eldest and his buddy were hitting wiffle balls over the roof of our house. Repeatedly. Scared my neighbors (who have older children) were going to be ticked (wouldn't you if you were woken up at the ass crack of dawn by kids playing outdoors wayyyy earlier than an acceptable 9:00ish??) I whisked the kids into the car and drove to the playground.

Until Middle said he had to poop. Middle, who hasn't pooped for 3 days and has woken up the past few nights with a bellyache due to said inability to squeeze one out. I'm thinking, "This is soooo not good right now..."

Ok, ok, gather the troops. Load them in car. Figure that I have time to make it to grocery store to use restroom. When turning car around, I notice a lone porta-potty, the rays of sun glistening on its roof like fairy dust. Just kidding.

Decide, hey that will do.

Pull car up to lone green dome. Leave other 3 in car with Cars soundtrack blaring. Unload Middle.

Open disgusting door trying not to use my hands (kinda hard). Plunk Middle on seat, instructing him, then YELLING at him to quit LOOKING down there! Gag to myself. Keep door propped open and look the other way while not inhaling. Middle instructs, "Look at me Mom!" Stare at his forehead, trying not to notice spiderwebs, fungus and mold contained within porta-potty.

Wait.

Wait.

Eldest yells from car, "Is he donnnnnnnnnnnne yet?"

Middle is straining ever so mightily to unleash the fury of 3 days worth of chicken nuggets, hot dogs and french fries nutritious and healthy meals. Poor buddy. His eyes are popping out of his head and he's working up a sweat. His face is beet red. Pee trickles down his leg. I gag again.

Finally, the telltale PLOP (it was more like a KER-PLUNK, actually) can be heard.

And again.

And again.

Middle smiles sweetly, relief etched on his little mug.

Finally, he's done. He bends over for me to wipe. The weak porta-potty excuse-for-toilet-paper disintegrates in my hands. Now my hand is covered in 3 days worth of built-up shit soiled. I wipe as best I can, gagging, yet still not breathing, slide up Middle's damp undies and shorts and haul him back to the truck where I use multiple baby wipes to wipe my hands and what I can of Middle's entire body.

Turn car around and head back to playground for more fun. Notice clock in car. It's only 8:52am.