It was like any other day in my five year old’s kindergarten life. School. After school program. Being picked up by Mom. Dinner. An episode of Johnny Test on the Roku. A regular Tuesday by any standards.
At about 7:30 PM, I was sitting on one end of the couch, with G on the other. He got up to go to the restroom, and without so much as a modicum of differentiation in tone/volume/intonation, announced ever so casually:
Today, I saw poop in a cup.
Let’s stop here for just a second. Certainly, the very nature of its content made this a rather shocking announcement. But for me, here's what was most alarming: in my son's mind, a story about Poop in a Cup had not been pushed ahead of the mundane. For him, Poop in a Cup was on par with “Can I have more milk,” and “Where is the remote?”
I summoned my son back to the couch.
Me: G. Can you come back here for a second, please?
Me: You saw poop in a cup, today?
Me: Real poop? Like, people poop?
So many thoughts, folks. Mostly projected hypotheses about the personality of the (alleged) Cup Pooper. I figured he had to be one of three kinds of little boys. (And Yes. I did rush to judgment in assuming that this act had been committed by a boy. Sure did.) I assumed he was:
A: A good boy. This boy would be terribly distressed at the thought of doing something as uncivilized as pooping on the ground. He feared his mother would not approve. A cup, at least, was not the ground. He was a little boy making the best out of an undesirable situation.
B: The little boy was a class clown. So be it.
C: There was an older boy with a serious problem, which might warrant reporting to the school.
I pressed G for facts, and here is what I gleaned:
The sighting took place in in the school's peace garden.
A boy approached G, and asked, Do you wanna see some poop in a cup?
G nodded, and was then shown some poop in a cup. (I could not decipher if the cup was styrofoam. But G was very clear that the cup was plain, and white.)
G: And then I said, is that your poop? And he said, “Yes. How’d you know?” And I said, “Because it looks like poop.”
I asked G how old the boy was. He got quiet, then emitted the universal sound of deep contemplation:
Me: What makes you think he was seven?
G: It just came to me. He was a big boy. And big boys sometimes make mistakes.
Me: True. Anything else?
Me: Okay. Hey, G?
Me: Next time someone poops in a cup, or ….anywhere….can you tell me a little sooner?
G: Sure. Are we done?
And then, ironically, he went and shut the door to the bathroom, an action that usually signifies that he is going to go poop. So, it would make sense that this would be the time that G chose to share that story, because he was thinking of his own poop. And that acted like a trigger for his poop story.
And that same logic leads me to believe that, were it not for his need to poop, I might not have ever heard the Poop in the Cup story.
But it just so happens that he did. And I did. So I told you about it.
That’s my piece, and that’s my peace. Thank you for taking the time to read my silly words. It means the world. Carry on…
Old Single Mom
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