Emmy’s Poop Problem

Since the pandemic started I have been educating and taking care of my sons and their cousin, Emmy. Emmy is a joy to be around with her eager smile, Shirley temple curls and penchant for improvising songs throughout the day, but she has a problem: Emmy can’t handle her shit. Prior to being in my care, I found this problem of Emmy’s hysterical.

When Emmy was two she managed to single handedly shut down the main pool at the Disney Aulani Resort in Honolulu. My sister had dressed her in a swim diaper AND a swimsuit, but two layers were no match for Emmy. My poor sister had to race out of the previously crystal clear pool with brown rivers running down her side and legs and inform the lifeguard of what her baby girl had done. When she first told me about the incident I had to hold back tears of laughter as she described the hatred in the eyes of her fellow resort goers who were forced to evacuate and swim in the, gasp, ocean. Well done Emmy, I thought, way to stick it to the 1%.

Then there was the time when Emmy was four and we went on a group family beach day. My sister and brother in law, Dave, had fallen asleep while my sons and Emmy occupied themselves with sand castles. I was enjoying the sound of the ocean waves while reading my Kindle in a beach chair when desperate screams shattered my soundscape. “I have to poooooooooo!” I looked up to see sand flinging as Emmy sprinted towards us, ending the rare moment of peace her parental units had been enjoying. The horror show had begun, and I had a front row seat. Dave shot up from his beach towel and got to his feet as his daughter stopped in front of him, still wailing. “Emmy what’s wrong?” he asked.

“I have to poooooooo!” she shrieked once more, this time with the added effect of tears. I glanced at my sister, who was “deep asleep.” I almost guffawed, but managed to turn away before the laughter overtook me. I thought I had gotten away with it, but my brother in law turned to me and met my eyes with a look that said, “fuck you” as he gathered up Emmy and took off running. By this point I was doubled over. “Save that look for your ‘sleeping’ wife!” I almost shouted after him, but was halted by the look of betrayal Emmy gave me over his shoulder. Why is Auntie Lola laughing at my pain?

I got to hear the conclusion when Dave returned with Emmy wrapped up like a burrito. By then my sister had woken up and asked while stifling a yawn, “What happened?” Damn her theatre major had paid off. Dave gave me a side glance as he stated, “Well, Emmy ran over here shouting ‘I need to poo,’ but halfway to the bathroom I discovered that she had already shit herself and I had to take her into the ocean to clean her off. I am now going to go back in the water and clean her bathing suit.” I tried so hard to stop it, but I doubled over with laughter. If looks could kill.

Then there was also the time I went to use the bathroom at my sister’s house and found streaks of feces on the tile floor and smeared on the toilet seat. Emmy had struck again. That incident was slightly less funny and more jarring since I smelled it first hand, but I immediately passed on my discovery to her parents. That hot mess was their responsibility.

Fast forward a year later; I am now caregiver and educator of Emmy for five hours a day. We recently resumed our classes after winter break and I was excited to get the kids back into a routine that didn’t involve a battle royale over Christmas toys.

“Children! Time to come to the rug,” I announced. Our day had begun ten minutes late because Emmy was in the bathroom. “This week we are going to be learning about North America. I have a song to play —

“Mommy! Emmy pooed on the rug!” interrupted my three year old, Alex. His voice was gleeful as he stood up and pointed down at his cousin. As the main competitor for his brother’s attention, Emmy was his number one frenemy.

“No I didn’t!” she yelled while clenching her small hands into fists.

Alex turned to her, arms at his side ending in even smaller fists, cheeks pink with rage, “Yes you did!”

I looked at the rug and saw a small brown mark. Was it there before? I prayed it was an old stain, but my gut knew the truth. Emmy had a track record. “Emmy, could you please stand up and turn around?”

She let out an indignant, “humph,” but did as she was told.

Her dress was stained with two muddy brown smears.

“Emmy? Did you go poop in the bathroom?”

“Yeah, but I wiped!” she whined.

I took a deep breath. I wanted to shout, “Jesus Emmy, what the fuck?!” But I also didn’t want to permanently scar her for life with further fecal related issues. I knew that this was it, the moment I had been training for months in my live stream yoga classes for. I reached down deep, found my zen, led Emmy to the bathroom and cleaned up her shit.

Photo by Alex Simpson on Unsplash