Tristan's Adventure ~

My nephews were running,
playing, laughing,
having fun
when Tristan suddenly yells,
"Poop!"
"Do you have to poop?" my
wife asks.
"I already did!" he shouts,
and takes off up the path that
leads around Tom Sawyer's
Island at Disneyland toward
the bathrooms.
I break out into a sprint
and follow the boy.
He overshoots the trail
that leads to the bathroom by
twenty feet.
"Tristan!" I yell.
He looks back at me with a wide
eyed expression somewhere
between surprise and desperation.
I point up toward the bathrooms.
"They're up there," I say.
He makes a quick recovery
and launches himself at the stairs.
He's taking two steps at a time
which is pretty impressive
because his legs aren't nearly long
enough to take one step at a time.
I finally catch up to him at the landing
to the bathrooms and notice
an expression of indecision as he
carefully acknowledges each of
the three bathrooms
(men's, women's, and handicap accessible).
The only one that's not in use is the
women's room.
He looks back at me for some type
of higher wisdom.
"Go for it," I say.
He scurries into the women's room
and promptly drops his pants.
I say, "Dude, close the door."
By this time, my wife has finally made
the half mile trek with the other kids.
"Did you get him on the toilet?" she asks.
"No," I reply, "it looked like he was doing
okay by himself."
"He can't get up on the toilet
alone," she says.
"How would I know, did you see the way
he took those stairs?"
My wife goes in and helps Tristan
while the rest of us wait
on the landing. A few minutes go
by and my wife emerges.
"Did he make it?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says, "he just pooped a little in
his pants. When he was laughing, he must have
farted and some came out."
I laugh, not because it's funny,
but because we just sidestepped
a particularly bad Disneyland outing.
Five minutes go by and I ask, "Do you
think he's alright?"
My wife goes in and checks. When she
comes out, she says, "He's still going."
After another five minutes, she checks on him
again. "Still going."
"How much can he have in there?" I ask,
"He's not even three feet tall!"
"You see how much he eats, right?"
Earlier, he had taken out three
pieces of chicken and some
chocolate milk.
I nod. "Yeah," I say.
"Just give him some time," she says.
Another five minutes or so and
Tristan comes out with
a grin so big you can actually see
the empty spot the poop left
behind.
In a flash, the boy's gone, navigating
trails,
and generally roughhousing with
his brother.
My wife and I are left there
to inspect the fallout
left behind.
It looks like a small war
had been fought and won
in that women's room,
a war only a three foot tall
boy could insight
with the help of three pieces of
chicken and some
chocolate milk.