I generally go to the laundromat during my respite hours, something my therapist hates because I should be out having fun and being youthful or some such thing. But it's sort of peaceful there. And they have free wifi.
Anyway, last Thursday Punkin was forced to come with me, which normally would have scared me. But since he's started that third dose of ritalin in the afternoon, I knew there wouldn't be any threat of climbing in the machines. He was awesome. He sat and watched Word Girl in such peace that I almost missed him squatting on the bench. "Punkin! Let's go potty."
"Yes potty. Let's go." At this point I knew we were racing the clock and I was left wondering which kind of spill I'd be left cleaning up if we lost. We rounded the corner past the last row of 60lb washing machines when I saw it, plop, right there on the floor -- a Punkin turd, rabbit sized.
Inside my head I was saying, OKAY, OKAY, We're almost to the bathroom. It's solid. It's small. No one can see, right? ARE YOU SERIOUSLY DOING THIS TO ME RIGHT NOW? And on the outside I just bent down and picked it up with the pair of swim trunks I had thought to grab out of the basket and kept walking. Oh, good gravy it's another one. Oh dear. Okay. Two more steps. They just keep getting bigger. Why does this stuff happen to me? They're just falling out of his underwear. This stuff doesn't happen to other people. There's the door. Of course a guy is sitting right there. "Go in, honey. No, Punkin. No, honey. Don't pick that up." Please don't put it in your mouth. Please don't put it in your mouth.
So now I'm stuck because the trunks are dirty and so are the shorts he's wearing -- and I have no underwear. To save both of us from a meltdown, he wore the trunks for approximately 25 seconds while I found a new pair of slightly damp pants and underwear in the dryer. And I was full on sweating.
As we walked out of the bathroom for the second time I realized two things; first, I missed a turd and second, the premise is under video surveillance.