As summer begins, I realize I’m not doing the greatest job of lightening things up around here lately so I’ve asked a few of the funniest, make-me-laugh-until-I-spit-out-my-coffee, bloggers to stop by and share their favorite summer memories with you. I’m beyond excited today to have Leslie, better known as The Bearded Iris sharing a hilarious memory that will make you glad she is not your child (and I mean that in the nicest way, Leslie).
So swallow your coffee and read on…
Hot Turd Time Machine
As a mother of three, it was clear very early on what each of my children’s unique interests and personalities would shape up to be. In a word, I’ve got one who’s a thinker, one who’s a stinker, and one who’s got all the warning signs of becoming a drinker.
I know, I know, we’re not supposed to “label” our kids, or use Tabasco as a “teaching tool,” or let our kids “play” with lighter fluid, but this isn’t about me as a parent. This is about me as a kid…a very mischievous kid. And let’s face it, a lima bean seed doesn’t grow into a maple tree. I think it’s safe to say that you can fairly accurately predict someone’s personality as an adult by the kind of trouble they get into as a child.
Looking back through that lens on my own childhood, it is no surprise to me that I have always had a penchant for poop.
No, no. I’m not one of those sickos who does creepy things with their feces like paint murals or craft figurines with googly eyes and little hats. I just think poop is funny, and I always have.
In fact one of my best summertime childhood memories involves poop. Not my own poop, mind you, but someone else’s. Wait, it’s not as gross as it sounds. Well, maybe it is.
Stay with me.
You see, one time when I was about six-years-old and my brother Ted was four, our family rented a beach house several blocks away from the shore in Delaware for a week with another family who also had two kids, Patrick and Chris.
One day, while the two families were schlepping all the towels, chairs, sand toys, and coolers to the beach, Patrick and I ran ahead and discovered something interesting on the sidewalk. It was a brown cylindrical object…roughly the size, shape, and color of either a potentially delicious candy bar or the excrement of a really big dog.
Being kids with no understanding of a potentially pathogenic situation, we decided to investigate further.
Our parents were probably about a block behind us (carrying all that stuff) and we were free to explore the mysterious brown cylinder without interference.
It was Patrick’s idea to touch it.
Oh fine, it was probably my idea.
But at least I was smart enough to pick up a twig and use that to touch the mystery object.
We had to know. Was it a candy bar or was it poop?
Not that we would have eaten it if it were a Baby Ruth. Okay, yeah, we probably would have. We were SIX.
“Hurry! Our parents are coming!” Patrick pleaded.
I attempted to plunge the twig into the mysterious mass.
The object was not soft enough for the twig to penetrate. In fact, it had a rubbery feel to it…the twig sort of bounced back.
I leaned in further to apply the scientific method and employ more of my senses.
It didn’t smell like poop.
There weren’t flies buzzing around it.
Surely if it was a candy bar, the chocolate would have been soft and shiny on the sidewalk in the late-morning summer sun.
Unfazed, we picked up the object with our hands. And of course by “we,” I mean “I.”
It was rubber!
OH LUCKY DAY! The Gods had shined down upon us and bequeathed the most devine gift: a very realistic fake rubber turd! Oh Rehoboth Beach, you felicity of fecal humor, you harbor of hilarity, you Elysium of excrement, you.
Quickly, we pocketed the poop before our parents could catch up to us and realize what we were doing.
“What were you guys looking at?” they inquired…suspiciously…when they caught up a moment later.
“Oh nothing, just a cool bug.” We lied like skilled felons.
Patrick and I had a secret…a juicy secret. We spent the rest of the day plotting how we would use the fake rubber turd to our advantage. The possibilities were endless!
One of our younger brothers still wore a diaper to sleep at night. I can’t remember if it was Ted or Chris, but Patrick and I finally agreed that the best course of action would be to play a practical joke on our parents the next morning by making it look like one of our little brothers had pooped in his sleep.
It worked like a charm.
Our parents were horrified…
…sadly, not at the shape, consistency, and girth of the preschooler’s bowel movement, but at the fact that the two older kids had picked up something off the street and inserted it into the back a sleeping child’s diaper.
Now that I’m a parent myself, can’t say I blame them. Holy shit, that is vile. Sure hope that was a fake turd, actually, now that I think about it.
Yes. Patrick and I spent a good chunk of that day in solitary confinement for our crime…
…giggling the whole time.
Totally worth it.
And to this very day, I still think fake poop is hilarious. And not surprisingly, so do my kids.
No summer memory is complete without a photo, this one Leslie affectionately titled Pull My Finger…
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