Bathroom at the
Point
by Kara Carlson
The five kids I babysat,
their mom, and I went to Bastion Point in
Auckland for the last dinner I would have with
them. We had McDonald's and carrot cake. When the
mom had asked me the day before what cake I would
like, I said chocolate. She bought carrot cake
because the nine-year-old was on a diet.
The five-year-old wandered
in the street, the baby shoved french fries in
his mouth, the nine and seven-year-olds futilely
attempted to get their kite out of the tree, and
I watched the three-year-old's facial expressions
as he played with himself. After two minutes, I
needed to pee.
"Hey baby, do you need
to go to the toilet?" I asked.
"I not a baby, I a big
boy. I have a baby," the three-year-old
responded.
I wasn't about to destroy
his delusions about having a child two years
younger than himself, so I agreed with him, swung
him onto my shoulders and carried him to the
bathroom.
When I removed his hands
from torturing my hair and set him down in the
bathroom, he informed me, "I have to do big
poos."
I covered the toilet seat
with toilet paper and set the kid on it. Four
minutes later he was still discussing the size of
his impending excrement, I was still standing in
his stall, and I still had to pee. My bladder
pain began afflicting my brain.
"Are you almost done?"
I asked.
He grunted and repeated,
"I have to do big poos."
I went into the next stall
to pee. As I was sitting down, the three-year-old
informed me, "You have to do poos."
"I don't have to do
poos! I just have to pee," I replied.
"You have to do poos
because I'm doing poos."
"Logical. But I think
I might just pee."
"Kara, do you love me?"
"Of course I love you,
but that doesn't mean I can force myself to do
poos."
"Sometimes you have to
squeeze it out. I'm squeezing it out now. I have
a little bum. Not a lot of poos come out at one
time."
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