It was a beautiful sunny day. One of those superior Saturdays in July with eighty something degree temperature and a delightful little breeze. We took the boys down the the town green in Duluth. There is a big open fountain that the kids love to play in and a ready supply of water for the numerous squirt guns that anti-social folk like us keep ready to hand.

We had a blast with only a few threats of death by strangulation for our aquatic mischief. There was a minor issue when we discovered a lack of dry clothing to change into. A bag had been forgotten when we packed up the van. We solved the problem by enjoying some ice cream cones while we waited for our clothes to dry. Not having a new pull-up for Burger was a concern but we sat him down on a few towels in case there was an accident in the van.

On the way home we decided to stop at Blockbuster. There was a new GameCube in the house and the Bear was dying to get something to play. This turned out to be a less than ideal decision. You see, the children were almost completely re-energized by the rest at the end of play and were now highly fueled by the sugar rich ice cream snack. We were not so much looking for things to rent as we were herding cats.

We split up in an attempt to cover more territory. The boys seemed to be gravitating toward the tower of games display where every console system is set up with demo games. I was stationed in this area keeping an eye on Bear and Bacon as Lovely Wife tried to quickly find a rental so we could escape.

There is an error in that last paragraph. Did you catch it? It has to do with numerology. The number of children under observation did not correlate with the number of children present. Burger was on the loose.

Lovely Wife found a couple of movies and a couple of games and came back to get my opinion. As I was looking over the title she asked where Burger was.

"Burger? You mean the small stealthy one? Why, he's right here ... um ... somewhere."

This was the wrong answer. Gentlemen, if you are ever in the situation where a child nominally under your supervision has disappeared and the mother of that child asks you where he is, do not say "... here ... um ... somewhere". The correct response is "Why, he's right behind you." Then when the mother turns around to see the (nonexistent) child you can hightail it right the hell out of there, just like Snagglepuss. Exit ... stage right.

Disaster and forcible gonad removal were prevented when a little voice said "Mommy! Mommy!". Ironically, this voice was just behind Lovely Wife, which goes to show you that the recommended situation handling method above is a good one.

"Mommy! I pooped!"

Oh. No.

You will recall, I am sure, that one of the items of concern over the missing bag for the day's outing was a lack of replacement pull-up for the little fellow. Remember the towels on the seat? Sure you do. Those are remarkably inefficient when the lad is up and walking around Blockbuster.

"Oh, no you didn't!" exclaimed Lovely Wife, denial being the first of the seven stages of grief.

"Yes I did. In my pants." Burger was apparently already through to the 'acceptance' stage.

Lovely Wife tossed the rentals to me, spun the child around and did a quick evidence check. The shorts were bare.

"No you didn't Sweetie. Maybe you just farted?"

"Uh-uh. I pooped. Over there." As he said these words he pointed to a nearby aisle, fittingly enough it was between the 'Horror' and 'Drama' sections.

Sure enough, sitting there in the middle of the aisle was a perfect little turd. I'm not talking about the kid here - I mean there was a poop, on the rug, in the store. Put there by one of my own.

I laughed. How could you not laugh at your kid pooping in Blockbuster? I mean come on! Talk about living commentary!

Lovely Wife was not quite as amused. She was still dealing with those stages of grief, you see. "Get rid of it!" she told me.

"What? How?"

"Kick it under a shelf. Don't let anybody see it!"

Um. Oh, boy.

I had visions then. A kid making minimum wage going through the store with his little rug sweeper. He encounters ... a poop. In his store. In the aisle. He immediately considers getting a job at Hardees. He calls the manager over. What does the manager think? Perhaps he wonders if the latest round of late fee notices might have been a tad on the stringent side. Perhaps he wonders for a moment what a manager at Hardees makes. At least he knows that it will be the pimply faced clerk who has to pick it up. But is that really so much consolation to a fellow who just found out that somebody SHIT in his store?

I really started laughing. Lovely Wife joined in since the shock had worn off and really, what other response was really possible?

As usual it was she and not me who solved the problem. She set me to guard the aisle while she took Burger to the car for a clean-up and to get a plastic bag and some wipes for disposal of the ... um ... commentary. I stood there on crap watch, looking around the store, hoping against hope that nobody would wander over to the violated aisle and trying in vain to stifle my giggles while nodding politely to the folks staring at me with "what the hell is wrong with this guy" looks on their faces.

A few days minutes later Lovely Wife returned with the proper equipment and took care of the poop. We quickly checked out, not quite able to stop the occasional snort or guffaw and when we exited the building we both let out with belly wrenching gut laughs.

The moral of the story? Actually there are two here. The first is always keep a supply of pull-ups around. The second is that little kids are natural born critics.