On my second day as an au pair, the five-year-old shit in the hot tub and held it out to me, saying, "I did poos."
After three months as an au pair, I sanctioned the five-year-old dropping a deuce in the corner of a school playground in Queenstown.
Earlier tonight, the mom was trying to get dinner together. The three-year-old playing tag with his mom's bottom and the five-year-old stealing cooking utensils for hide-and-seek piloted the mom towards asking me to take the kids down the hill to the school's playground. I needed octopus hands to grasp the four sets of kid extremities. The seven-year-old almost got hit by a car when she ran across the street to the playground. I contemplated throwing myself in front of the car and pushing her out of the way. But, then I realized she avoided the vehicle, and had I flung myself to head off the car like Batman, it probably wouldn't have occurred to me to release the other kid's hands. At least two of the other children would have come with me.
Immediately upon crossing the street to the school, the nine-year-old pointed upwards into the trees. His eyes jittered like a schizo's.
"Apple trees," he exclaimed. "Let's pick some apples!"
At his suggestion, the other three flared up in a frenzy. Cries of, "We can eat them," "We can make apple pie," and, "Apples make you pooh!" invaded my stability. Had I been seventeen feet tall, picking apples would have been easy. When I told my tribe of children we probably couldn't reach them, the nine-year-old generously offered my shoulders and himself. Five minutes later he sat on my shoulders shrieking, "I can't reach them, I can't reach them. Higher. Higher," as I stood on tip-toe pushing his ass up as much as I could. He got four apples.
The kids and I were playing a lovely game called Kill the Baddie, which in this case was a foreigner from China, when the five-year-old rushed towards my legs as if they were Chinese and she wanted to ram them with her forehead.
Tears howled down her cheeks. Her hands fired around my legs.
"It's coming out. It's coming out," she heaved words in between my legs.
"What's coming out?" I asked.
"The poos. The poos are coming out," she wailed.
We were in a playground behind a school. We had had to break the fence to get in. Bathrooms were locked. Nobody was here.
"It's coming out," the five-year-old screeched, followed by a bouncing shit dance. She almost burst my eardrum.
"Umm, okay okay, come here," I said, snatched the hand that wasn't covering her butthole, and towed her to the corner of the grass. I had her lean her ass against the fence corner with her feet out. She wanted to hold my hands.
"Don't go," she roared when I retreated a step.
"I'm not going anywhere, I just don't want to smell... or see... what I'm now smelling and seeing," I replied.
I scoped the area for toilet paper. An old grocery bag reposed in the corner of the playhouse. The five-year-old refused to wipe herself. I wiped her posterior with torn up bits of plastic bag while attempting not to gag. Her shit smelled like it had been simmering in rat stew for a decade. I covered the three-hundred-pound male-sized excrement with leaves.
When the three-year-old alleged that he too needed to use the toilet, I took the kids back to the house where the three-year-old continued to play tag with his mom's buttocks and the five-year-old commandeered cooking utensils for hide-and-seek.
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