Thursday, March 4, 2010

The Poopy Kindsay

This is a story of historical qualities...meaning-it doesn't necessarily happen often enough any more to make a big fuss, but I do need to document some 'good old times' with Kindsay before the dementia kicks in. Kindsay loves the bathroom. Don't we all? We go there to escape, sometimes pretending to have to use it just to get away. From the time I can remember, Kindsay used the bathroom as her place to recollect herself to move onto the next thing, whatever it was. Even at school, the teachers had to make deals with her about her bathroom visits because they were so frequent. But Kinsday doesn't just stand in the bathroom collecting herself. She goes through all the motions, even if nothing is there. I know she's just collecting herself when I know she's in the bathroom and call her name, only to hear her skirt slip back up her legs the moment I say it. On top of that, Kindsay for a while had a fondness for going to the bathroom in the strangest places. It was like a fettish or something (kinda weird to use that word with her, but when it's freaky, it's freaky.) Allow me to enlighten you with some pictures you must create in your mind because, well, I didn't get this on film, and I would've been arrested if I had.
We're at the beach. We know Kindsay's constant need to use the bathroom so we make a camp about 100 feet from the public bathrooms (we're at Avila, you know what bathrooms I'm talking about.) She's about 6 or 7 years old, maybe older. I prop up a tent, one of those tiny ones, to lay Ty since he was baby and it was a good place to let him sleep sans sand. OK, Kindsay, there's the bathrooms, if you need to go, we can go! She loves toilets, but that day, that special day, she thought going to the bathroom somewhere else would make the day more memorable. Indeed.
"where's Kindsay?" we call her name, don't see her up and down the beach, and get frantic. She finally shuffles around in the tent. I swing the tent flap open to find her squatting in her own hand...number 2 I might add. Now for what reason do you think she was doing that knowing the bathrooms were a step or two away? So what is the point in my asking "WHY??" There is no answer, and there never has been...but oh how I ask the question in vain! Poop plopping into her hands as her head shoots up to her new audience as deer in headlights. Back then, things still surprised us so that wasn't a fun realization. It didn't make it easy that we had a baby or two. That meant we had diapers. Oh how Kinsday wishes she were an infant! The way she can STILL, with all 5.5 feet of her, curl into fetal position is amazing. I cannot tell you how many long distance trips we went on to have her cry to use the bathroom every 10 minutes, every..... 10..... minutes, even after we'd just stopped for her so she could merely tinkle in the toilet. Then when not giving in to her demands, we wind up smelling a foul stench of large child urine wafting through the shut in van. She'd slipped on a diaper, found a paper towel, or used a regular towel taken to clean up accidents in the car, and strapped it around her crotch. This would be done in the back of the van, practically in the trunk behind the luggage so we wouldn't see her in the rearview mirror. The diapers would be full of urine, not like little baby amounts, but big kiddo bladders-full. That would force a pull-over, which she l-o-v-e-d. If she can control us, she's in her version of what heaven will be...that and it will have a toilet on every corner. Now if I can get her through adulthood without knowing there are "Depends" for sale in the drugstore down the street. It would be heaven to strap on a diaper all day. And yeah,...she would.

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