Boys,
So I want to start by saying that this blog is for you two. I want you to have something you can look back on and learn a little bit about what our lives were like at a time you probably won’t remember very much of when you’re older. Maybe reading these will spark a memory and if so, that’s great. It’s important that I get that out of the way first. So, it’s been established that this blog was created with good intentions and love.
With that being said…
There was….an incident. Let me set the scene.
Sidebar: there will be no pictures in this post for reasons that will become obvious to you in a minute.
So we flew down to Fort Lauderdale to visit our family and because aunt Paige was getting engaged and we were there to celebrate. We had Christmas at our house, and the plan was to fly down the day after Christmas and be home before New Year’s Eve — quick trip. Our plane left Ohio around 6pm, so we didn’t get into Fort Lauderdale until around 9ish. So there is a little bit of off-rhythm that can be excused for.
We’re waiting at baggage claim, and Reagan and mom went to the bathroom. As soon as you get back, Reagan, you tell me you have to go poop.
“Didn’t you just come from the bathroom? Why didn’t you…nevermind. Koen, do you need to pee?”
“Yes.”
With all that, the three of us head back to the bathroom. It’s a bit of a walk, let’s call it about a par-3 away from where we were. So not right there, but also not like it’s two terminals over. We are getting there, and there is no real sense of urgency in the air. I’m holding Koen’s hand and Reagan is walking a few feet ahead. Reagan takes the corner into the bathroom, and I almost instantly hear this call of stress/panic/frustration. Kind of like, “ERRR-UNGHHH!!!” It was something that didn’t make me think you were hurt, but like, something was off.
The bathroom was otherwise empty, which for an airport as large as the Fort Lauderdale airport is, ended up being a small blessing. I usher Koen over to the urinal and I push open the stall door to see what the commotion was all about.
On the floor were two piles of poop. Like, before we move on, how does that even happen? We’re obviously dealing with a poop accident, but what happened to make two piles? We’ll leave that for now, as my eyes drift up, I see more poop caught in the underwear now pulled down just past the rim of the toilet. The little bridge on the toilet bowl where the seat doesn’t quite come together is also compromised, and finally, just a sweaty, panicked six-year-old not quite sure what to say or how to feel just staring at me waiting for me to figure out how to fix the situation.
“Dude. What happened?”
“I didn’t make it to the toilet.”
“Yea. I can see that.”
Meanwhile, none-the-wiser Koen finishes what he’s doing — stuck the landing by the way. No pee outside of where it was supposed to go.
“Koen. Come in here. Stand right here. Not here,” (I motion to the giant piles of poop). Reagan, you generally don’t have much control of your body, but your shoe just dusts the top of the left pile of poop — like not the time to be swinging our legs loosley during a def-con 10 situation.
“Dude!!! Can you control your limbs for two seconds please?!?”
Now, this stall is probably 3×6 feet. Obviously, in this tomb-sized situation, we also have a toilet, three people, both of your bookbags, and my brand new duffle bag. I hang what I can on the door and carefully position the rest next to Koen. Point being…it’s a bit tight.
“OK, you don’t move. Reagan, I’m going to take off your shoes, then socks, then pants and undies. You finish what you’re doing. I’m going to wash these off in the sink. Koen, I want you to lock the stall door behind me, OK? I’ll be right out here, OK?”
Plan confirmed. I take the shoes off — one clean and one very not clean. Clean shoe goes up on the handrail. Socks are good, they go there too. Carefully, I take off the pants, then the underwear. Now, being a parent means you have to learn how to just react sometime. Like, this is a first for me. Have you had accidents before (when you’re younger, no less)? Yes. But we have multiple variables that they didn’t put in the instruction manual. I rip out one of those paper toilet seat covers and just wrap the undies up in there and leave that on the ground. I’m thinking these might just need to be hidden or burned or something, but we’re not going to deal with these yet.
I take the pants (necessary) and poop-shoe out of the stall and make my way over to the sink. As I do this, some guy comes in to use the bathroom, and I just kind of smile and shrug like an ass hole as I’m using single ply paper towels to clean kid-shit off in the sink. Like, “hey pal. We’ve all been here, right?” I’m pretty sure he saw me before I saw him and did everything he could not to make eye contact.
So it goes without saying, but at this point, it’s pretty obvious that we’re going to be walking out of here with compromised pants. I do the best I can, but there is a fair bit of just smashing some poop into the fibers of the pants. But if we can get it to where we don’t see active poop on the outside of our clothes, we are going to take it as a W. I then take the shoe and try to use my thumb against the spout to create a small jet stream to rinse the bottom of the shoe. I do what I can, and as I’m finishing up, a janitor walks in with his cleaning cart. Thank god.
I start to explain and apologize to him at the same time. Like, “hi. Uhh, my son is in here and I’m so sorry by the way. But he was on his way in and we had a little accident and I’m so sorry, but like, do you have a plastic bag I could use?” As I’m setting the table for him, I realize he doesn’t seem to be catching everything that I’m saying and I realize he doesn’t speak english — at least not well.
“Uhh…sorry. Bag?”
Like, let’s keep it simple and only what necessary. “Bag? Do you have bag? I’m sorry.”
Meanwhile, “dad, I’m done.”
Our guy isn’t going anywhere, so we’ll come back to the bag. I think he’s seen enough with me washing poop off of a size 2 shoe to realize this isn’t going to be a standard 9pm bathroom cleanup. I go back in. “Did you wipe?”
“I can’t. It’s too messy.”
“Well I’m not going to do it. Come on dude.” I tear off more than a normal amount of single ply squares and hand it to you. “Just try.”
Maybe there is more of a fear of poop when you’re six, but you give it a solid half-effort and look back up at me. “Dad. I can’t. It’s stuck.”
“What’s stuck?” It comes out of my mouth, but I know what’s stuck.
I tear off another seat cover and crumple it up. I put it behind him on the back-left corner of the toilet.
“Ok. Stand up and turn around. I want you to put your hand here and bend over.” I motion to the crumpled paper so he wouldn’t have to touch the toilet. Obviously confused, you stand up and still facing me, put your right hand on the paper, now with a shitty tp-tail dangling out behind you. “Reagan, come on man. I need you to turn around. Put your other hand here (motioning to the paper) and your left hand can hold on to this rail.”
Now on the same page, you follow direction and I grab a few ply’s and try to extract the tail from the cheeks. “Reagan, you gotta stop clinching I can’t get anything out if you’re doing that.”
“I’m not clinching.”
“Dude, I can tell. You have to relax.”
I kind of black out the next few seconds, but I’m confident that we got all the paper out and do what we can to clean you up. There is obviously a shower happening as soon as we get home, and since the pants aren’t going to be perfect either, we’re just going to roll with what we have. I put your pants back on and move you both out into the open area of the bathroom. I notice that your sweatshirt also has a smear on the back of it (of course it does), so we take that off too.
Back to the janitor.
“Bag? Please. I’m so sorry.”
He hands me the bag and I put the undies and sweatshit into it and spin it closed like a loaf of shit bread. I bring out the bags and put them next to you two. I take the two wadded up seat covers and just dump those in the trash can. It is what it is, right? I go back into the stall and take another roll of tp. I make one swipe at the first pile, see that it’s probably doing more harm than good, and toss it into the toilet. This is now someone else’s crime scene.
I exit to wash my hands, offer three or four more apologies that may or may not be landing. I consider just handing him $20, but decided to just get out with the last shred of dignity that is left between the three of us. Shoes on. Shoes tied. Hands washed. Let’s go. I take my full-sized black trash bag full of poop clothes and my brand new bag out and we make our way back to the baggage claim and mom.
As we arrive, I’m holding up the bag and trying to be mindful not to get to close to anyone. I’m pretty sure no one is going to want to stand to close to us if we smell like I think we probably smell. Your mom is still waiting for the luggage. Reagan, you tell me not to tell mom what happened, and I counter with a “I’m pretty sure she’s going to find out one way or another.”
At this point, the worst is behind us and I’m kind of having fun with it. Like, what are we going to do now, right? Your mom is cracking up as I’m just double fisting two bags — one I want and one I very much don’t. Ultimately, we make it up to the rental car, and throw everything I can in the back, careful to seal the poop bag so contain the smell as best I can. We get to the house and get the clothes in the wash and you, Reags, in the shower.
We survived, but I told all the non-parents at the house when we got there. The moral of the story is this — before you have kids, just know this is what you’re signing up for. I do wonder how your mom would have handled that had she been there instead of me. But also, you just came from the bathroom with her. This whole thing could have been avoided. But then again, there wouldn’t be as much of a story to tell, would there be?
Love you boys,
Dad
From Ryan to Reagan and Koen 
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