Shambala

Frank Sinatra was right. Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week. Or was, for me, wiping shit off a Boy in the parking lot of a dirty mingo store in Centerville.

I guess it isn't a totally awesome Mr. Mom trip unless we have urine, shit, or puke.

This misadventure, like most, came out of nowhere. We were enjoying a peaceful drive back home after a busy weekend in Houston. Even though it was around Wy's normal bedtime, he had been asleep for nearly an hour. Ever since we left Pops house. E wasn't asleep yet, but quietly watching Night at the Museum on my iBook. Me. I sat at the helm, listening to Coffee Break Spanish on my iPod, trying to get my Okie tongue to properly pronounce 'Soy de Málaga, pero ahora vivo en Madrid.'

It was peaceful. Not that it would last.

"ETHAN!!!!!!! Wy screamed from the seat directly behind me. "ETHAN!!!!!!!!!!! NO...NO...NO!!!!!!!!"

"Ethan, what did you do to your brother?"

"ETHAN!!!!!!!!!!!" Wy screamed.

I couldn't see Ethan in the rearview mirror thing that allows us to see the Boy(s) in their car seats without turning our head. It was dark.

"Ethan. What did you do." Like it mattered. Wy was awake now, and furious.

"ETHAN!!!!!" Wy screamed, one last time, and then started crying. Hard.

He cried the next ten miles. At one point, the Elder Boy had the audacity to ask me to make him stop crying - so he could hear his movie.

"Payback, Boy." I replied, "Payback," and went back to my lesson, "Éste es mi marido."

A few moments later, Wy abruptly quit crying, and said in a calm voice, as if he just remembered, "Dad, I need to poop."

"You need to poop?" You got to love my classic father-of-the-year move of repeating something as a question. I'm such an idiot. Like I'm going to get a different reply.

"Dad. I need to poop...now."

"Mierda." Mark and Kara would be so proud.

"Wy Wy, You need to hold it. There's no where for us to stop. As soon as I see an open mingo store, or gas station, Daddy will stop...it might be a few minutes though."

"I want to poop at home."

Perfect. You try explaining the concept of miles and drive time to a three year old who has just been rousted from golden slumbers, only to realize he has to crap.

"Wy. That won't be possible. We won't be home for two hours. I doubt you can hold it that long. Just try and hold it until we can get to a gas station."

"No. Poop at home."

"Son, that's not realistic." Maybe he's scared I thought. Big public toilet without the benefit of his Dora the Explorer seat. "Daddy, will help you."

"I need to poop."

"I know son. You need to hold it until we can stop at a gas station."

"It's coming out!"

"What!?!?

"My poop!"

"Wy. Do you want...need me to stop now? We can try to poop outside."

"It's dark."

"I know bub. Daddy would help you. Be with you. If you can't hold it. I could put a diaper on you?!?"

Looking back now, I believe he might have let me stop and help him crap outside. Or put a diaper on him, if the Elder Boy hadn't picked that moment to chime in and help.

"Wyatt. Poop outside," Ethan said, in a saccharine voice that was a set up for his finish, "LIKE A DOG!"

"I'M NOT A DOG!!!!!!" Wyatt erupted. "I'M NOT A DOG!!!!!!"

"Ethan, you're not helping. Be quiet. I mean it." To prove that I did in fact, mean it, I reached around and grabbed his left leg with my right hand and squeezed slightly as a warning. "I'm not kidding."

"I'M NOT A DOG ETHAN!!!!!!!!!"

"Wyatt. Settle down. It's ok. Do you need for Daddy to stop? Or can you hold it. I don't want you to poop in your pants. I can put a diaper on you..."

I love my Boy(s). Really. I get mad at them, angry at times, all the normal emotions, but I rarely get so upset by something they've done to say that I hate it. I hate what Ethan said next. "Wy poops in his pants like a baby."

Sweet Mother of all that is good - hell broke loose.

"I'M NOT A BABY! NOT A BABY! NOT BABY!!!!!!"

The Little Warrior was rabid, screaming, crying, and thrashing around his car seat, trying to get free to pummel his brother who was just out of his reach.

"Wy Wy settle down." I said. "Ethan, dammit, I want you to be quiet! You're not helping. Wy Wy, son, settled down...Wy Wy. Settle down..."

"NOT A BABY! NOT A BABY! NOT BABY!!!!!!"

"Wy Wy calm down."

And he did. The fight left him and he settled into his seat and cried, softly.

"Wy Wy," I said. "I can see the lights for Centerville on the horizon. Daddy will stop. Hold on."

Nothing. Wy just sat behind me, in the darkness, crying. At first it was soft, but it slowly built into full on sobbing. It was bad enough to transform the Elder Boy from asshole instigator into a concerned and sympathetic brother.

"Wy." Ethan said, in the same sweet voice he uses to baby talk Ruby the dog, "Daddy is going to stop. It's ok. It's alright"

As an only child, I'm amazed at how fast the Boy(s) can go from trying to kill each other, to moments such as this.

"Ethan's right, bub. Daddy is going to stop. I see the sign for the gas station now. Just a few more minutes. Hold on."

It was to late of course. When Wyatt exploded with rage, I think his bowels exploded too. The smell let Ethan and I know he hadn't made it before we came to a complete stop at the side of the mingo store. Wy was so upset at this point, he couldn't even talk well enough to tell us he didn't make it. "I...I...I...Po...Po...Po..."

"It's ok son. It isn't your fault. Settle down. Daddy is here. Ethan is here. We'll get you fixed up...I promise. You have nothing to be ashamed of...we love you."

"It's ok Wy." Ethan added, in that same Ruby the dog voice. "It's going to be ok."

Only thing. It wasn't ok. It was horrible. Wy was inconsolable. Shaking. It was heart wrenching. There was no way I'd ever get him and Ethan into the store. Even if I did manage I had no idea how I would clean him. Dip him in the toilet bowl? The sink? I actually wondered if they had a hose around back. I didn't have many options. On that Saturday night, that little Centerville mingo store was hopping like the Quicktrip used to hop in my youth. It was crazy. Cars and people cruising around. Talking.

Only thing I could do was get my baby boy, who is no longer a baby, out of his car seat and hold him while the kids of Centerville cruised the mingo store parking lot. I'm sure we were quite a sight. A few even laughed at us. Not that it mattered. I only wanted to comfort Wy. To let him know it was Ok. Not his fault.

After getting Wy calmed down, I took him around to the front of the van. The passenger side to be exact, which afforded more privacy since it was the side that wasn't facing the busiest part of the parking lot. Doing a quick wipe inventory, I realized I would be hard pressed to clean up all the shit with my limited supply. I'm not that good. I had to improvise, which I did, by stripping Wy's pants, underwear and socks and using the cleaner parts of each to wipe off the initial mess. When I was done, I dropped the filthy clothes on the ground, and used all the wipes to finish the job.

"Guys, I'll be right back." I said, as I locked them in the car.

I took the soiled pants, underwear, and socks and walked around the side of the store looking for a trash can. As luck would have it, the one I found was full, and right next to the front door of the busy store. A couple of teen-age cowboys were standing there, talking as I walked up and said, "Shit." as I tossed the clothing into the trash. They both looked at me as if I was nuts. I further cemented there initial impression by wiping some shit off of my hands onto my shorts. I wasn't abou to go into that busy store and leave the Boy(s) alone, and as I've said, I was out of wipes.

Twenty miles later, both Boy(s) were sound asleep leaving me alone with my thoughts. I tried to listen to Mark and Kara, but I couldn't get into it. I couldn't get the thought of how sad Wy had been out of my head. How ashamed he'd seemed with himself. Before we left the mingo store I had put a diaper on him. Not because of the accident. He still wears a diaper at night. I was afraid though, that he might think I was making him wear one, because of what happened.

"Wy Wy. I said. I'm going to put this diaper on you. It's night night time. It doesn't mean you're a baby. You're a big boy."

"Daddy..."

"Yes."

"I am a big boy." He said as he smiled, all traces of his shame and sadness gone.

"Yes, son, you are." I said, as I picked him up, giving him a big hug in that dirty mingo store parking lot in Centerville.

Thinking about that conversation, twenty miles up the road, in the dark, with the Boy(s) asleep, I felt sad. At first I didn't really understand why. Any regular reader of this here BLOG know it isn't a Mr. Mom trip unless we have some misadventure. At first I chalked it up to a long weekend, and being tired. The more I thought about, I realized the reason was I was having a delayed reaction from staying at Pops house. The previous Thursday and Friday nights were only the fifth and sixth time I've slept in that house since I watched Mom die there. Driving home I became acutely aware that most everything we had done that weekend, in that house, had been right where Mom died. The hospital bed is gone of course. The oxygen machine. The smell. My Mom. All gone. But my memory of it all. Lingers.

I'm not sure why that bothers me so much. Only that it does. If only I could wipe that pain away.

Until I BLOG again...Wash away my sorrow, wash away my shame.