A Memory For Mother’s Day

My earliest memory is a three-way tie. I like to tell people that I remember being three or four, riding my tricycle down my driveway, trying to catch up with my brother and his friends. They’re in the street doing donuts, laughing and hollering, telling me to hurry up, but just a I get close, they take off down the street, leaving me in the dust.

Is this my first memory? It’s one of them.

I also remember being around the same age – I know, because at four years old we moved out of the old farmhouse, and this was definitely in that old farmhouse – I would climb down the stairs on my hands and knees, being as quiet as a kid that age could, and I’d sneak up behind the couch and crawl onto the bottom shelf of the end table so I could see what kind of TV shows my parents were watching.

Sometimes I break that one out instead of the tricycle thing. Ya know, if I’m trying to be cute.

But, my friends, there is a memory that I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone. A memory from the second story of that old farmhouse. I don’t know how long I’d been out of diapers, but I maybe should have gone just a little longer. You see, and pardon me for saying it, but I had to poop. Big time. The kind of poop that feels like it weighs enough to register on a none too sensitive scale. The problem? My brother was in our bathroom.

Sure. You’re thinking, “There was probably a toilet downstairs. Why not use that one?” Well, smartass, I didn’t yet possess the reasoning skills to ask if I could, just this once, use the toilet downstairs even though it was past my bedtime (I’m assuming. I don’t really remember for sure).

So there I sat, on my hands and knees, peeking under the door to see what the hell was taking so long. I couldn’t see anything that I remember (can you ever see much of anything when you’re peeking under a door? I couldn’t), but I was desperate. I yelled and I complained and then, and you knew this was coming, I pooped. Right there in the middle of the hallway. And boy, was it as big as it felt.

Now, I don’t remember the clean up. I have a vague sense of my mother with an entire roll of paper towels, but I don’t have the detail like I do leading up to “the event”. Not having any children of my own, I’ve never had to pick up human feces by hand. Sure, I’ve had to plunge the odd toilet here and there throughout the course of my life, and that’s bad enough, but to actually pick up poo… I don’t care how many paper towels…

Maybe it’s different when it’s your kid. I dunno. Either way, to all you mothers out there who have a similar story about your children, all I have to say is cheers to you!

Happy Mother’s Day!

Engage The Hofflebrock

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