Running full-speed down the grassy knoll, blue crocs flying, you stop on a dime, turn with wide eyes and say, “Mom, I have to poop,” to which I also come running to hold you under the armpits as you squat over the budding balsam root, but you aim poorly as it all comes out and pee a little on my shoe and on the pants pooled around your ankles, making me us both laugh (after I first curse) because–really–it is pretty funny on this sunny day in the hills, doing what all animals do.
p.s. I buried the poop, of course.