Caloden

Yesterday afternoon I took Devon to watch one of Cassidy's soccer games. I far prefer the games that fall on Matt's days or weekends so that I can watch the game in peace while he chases Devon all over the field. It is something I should help with but don't and that I justify by the karmic laws of divorce. But yesterday it was just Devon and me and by halftime he had had his fill of sitting still in his miniature Lightning McQueen soccer chair and wanted to head to the adjoining playground. There we ran into one of the other little brothers who also frequents the many soccer games. He is slightly older than Devon and of a far different, more aggressive personality. But, still, he was a small body and like minded so he and Devon proceeded to careen down the slides and bury themselves in small pebbles. From time to time I would look for his mother, she would occasionally breeze by, smile her wan, tired smile, complain about the many games and how hard it is to do it all and then she would return to the other side of the field and sit on her ass for another 20 or so minutes. On one of her trips to our side I noticed her little boy hopping up and down around her legs. She swatted him away while she chatted with another mom, likely flashing the same smile and sharing the same, broken record complaint. After a few minutes her son began crying and she finally turned her attention to him. She bent down to reprimand him and suddenly a look of horror flashed across her face and they disappeared into the bathroom. Within moments I heard her curses of, "Holy fuck! What the hell?" One of her older sons stood outside the door, shifting from foot to foot and looking generally nervous. That is when I noticed the trail of runny pooh that trickled from the playground to where the little boy had been pulling on his mom's pant leg and then leading to the bathroom. I knew what had happened. I also knew there was no water yet available from the spigots or faucets. I could hear the little boy's cries and her clipped words. And I turned my back and walked over to where Devon played alone. We dug our bare feet into the cold pebbles and poured more rocks over one another's feet.

Devon and I are no strangers to soccer pooh accidents. A few weeks ago at another soccer game I had packed a fun bag filled with fun foods: juice boxes with grape juice, cookies, gummy fruit snack packs, all things I usually nix from our cabinets but that seemed like a good idea for a soccer game over 90 miles from home. Loren and Devon and I sat on the sidelines playing and rolling in the grass and watching Cass kick ass on the field. I noticed Devon sipping happily from a juice box but wasn't too concerned until he approached me after halftime, crying and holding his extended tummy. I looked in the fun bag and discovered he had consumed six of the eight juice boxes. We headed towards the bathroom where he perched on the toilet and tooted and burped. All was well so after the game we headed to Ross to get the kids some clothing. Somewhere in the toy aisle Devon got a look of fear on his face and started hopping up and down. With each landing, brown softness squished out of his pants. I scooped him up, headed for the bathroom and plopped him on the toilet where rivers of brown water poured from his tiny rump. Devon thought the tooting sounds were hilarious and the combination of the stink and the laughter cleared the entire bathroom. At one point Cass came in, smelled the stench and doubled over giggling. The three of us sat there for what seemed like forever while Devon cleared his bowels and giggled at the grossness of it all. I hadn't packed any extra clothes, but in a store filled with cheap overstocks who really cares. I snagged some Carter's monkey pajamas, switched out his smelly clothing and we headed on to Old Navy.

I know I should have helped that other mom, it would have been the decent, Christian thing to do. Last night I read a post about judging other moms and how wrong it is. I agree, moms should stick together and stop being so damn bitchy. But here's the thing, that mom tries so hard to be so damn perfect all the time. Her kids are overly well dressed, her house is always immaculate. She speaks in soft, hushed tones so as to not stress her kids. Until yesterday I never knew she had any state other than fatigue from being such a fantastic mother. Why was it that a spot or two of runny pooh undid her? Shit literally does happen, and when it does you can either giggle or crumble under the weight of it. There was no pleasure in how upset her little boy was but there might have been the slightest bit of satisfaction in finally hearing her crack. Is that so bad?