Three of the kids I babysit and I went on a hike a half hour outside of Queenstown, New Zealand. They had wanted to go to the movies. I had been in Australia for over two weeks and hadn't run in a month. I took them on a hike.
New Zealanders refer to hiking as tramping. The first time I heard the term, I had initiated the conversation by saying I wanted to go on an adventure. One of my friends suggested tramping. I assumed he meant we should wander the streets looking for skanky whores. When I hesitated, he insisted we go tramping.
"Really? I was thinking along the lines of kayaking or something," I had said.
"It's sort of the same concept. Let's go tramping," he replied.
"Oh fine, let's go find you a hooker."
"In the trees?" he asked.
Hiking around a half hour outside of Queenstown, we ended up at a golf course. I taught the girls how to make daisy chains. The three-year-old wandered around looking for golf balls. We were on our second daisy chain when I noticed the little boy cupping something in his hands. He seemed to shelter and protect whatever he held. I thought it might be a baby bird. As I walked over to him, he looked up and smiled.
"It smells pretty," he said.
He held black dog shit in his hands. I screamed.
Ten minutes later, the seven-year-old announced that she had to pee. I've learned that when little kids say they have to pee, they generally are already peeing. Little kids are like needy toys. You just have to carry around two spare pairs of underwear and three containers of baby wipes. Per child. When the girl said she had to pee, I snatched one of her hands and dragged her into the bushes. With her other hand, she grabbed her crotch and shook her head. It was my daily moment for feeling exactly like a pedophile.
When we were two steps in, I stopped hauling her and tried to take off her pants.
"No, not here, we're not far enough away from people," she said.
For being seven, the girl has an unfounded sense of propriety. When I looked around, the only people I saw were her younger brother and sister. They don't count. The three of them straddle each other in the bath, but the seven-year-old was too modest to pull down her pants on the off-chance they might glimpse her coochie.
"Please!" she exclaimed.
I towed her around the other side of a tree. As I helped her pull her pants down, a massive horse-stream of urine gushed onto her underwear, her pants, and my hand.