The three-year-old is equally fascinated by rockets, dinosaurs, ships, excrement, and his penis. After playing with a rocket or dinosaur, he will scuttle to the toilet springing on his little-boy legs, shrieking that he has to do poos. After disemboweling, the three-year-old regularly slithers off, his butt juice mudsliding across the toilet seat. Then, he habitually studies his feces in the toilet. He prides himself on yielding brown sinkers and smelly shits.
"Look how big, Kara. It's a good poos," he has often disclosed before bending over so I can wipe his ass.
Yesterday, at breakfast, I excavated my plate and spaded cereal and Nutella toast in my mouth while seven kids threatened to fracture my cranium. When the mom I work for declared, "Kara, you look like you need a good tramp," Nutella bits and toast butts fell from my mouth in confusion. Seven kids, two moms, and I hiked around Lake Waikatipu's Twelve Mile Delta outside of Queenstown for four hours. We progressed a mile and a half. New Zealanders refer to hiking as tramping.
The ten of us tramped through orbed red mushrooms that belong in Alice in Wonderland. We jolted through winking rivers and joggled down dirt paths lined with bush whose green glossed over chocolate trees. We halted for lunch at a beach where sandflies and mosquitos physically assaulted my feet. I was wearing sandals.
When we paused so the mom could change the baby's diaper, the other six children trotted down a hill so we could horse-race ourselves around a looped trail.
After I lost four times and the kids glorified in their wins, the nine-year-old launched towards me.
"Kara, I have to go poop. I'm going poop. Right now," he said, holding his ass in his hands.
His facial expression resembled that of a woman in labor. I surged up the hill to the moms and stroller and clutched all remaining baby wipes. Once I had given three wipes to the nine-year-old, the seven- and five-year-olds established that they too needed to clear the chute. I overlooked three squatting child heads in the bushes when the three-year-old grappled my leg. I looked down into his nutty eyes and long-ass eyelashes.
"I have to do poos too," he wailed. It was a sympathy pooh. The younger kids imitated the oldest.
I stripped the three-year-old of his shoes, socks, pants and underwear. I felt like a baby fondler. After the three-year-old ejected dung from his butt, I wiped him with the last of the wipes. He then told me he needed to visit his older brother and his poop.
"I like his poos. It's so tight. He does good poos," the three-year-old informed me before spurting towards his brother's bush.
Twenty seconds later he sprung towards me screaming, "It smells bad, Kara. It smells so bad!" Then he cried.