We had been at the park for approximately four minutes when my three-year-old, from atop the tallest tower he could climb, called down “I have to poop!”

I scouted the park for a private place to undress this child, wrap his tush in a diaper, let him do his thing, clean up the mess, then replace him in his underpants. I had no changing pad or towel, and it was getting chilly. We were not close to home. I was really, really annoyed that my kid couldn’t (wouldn’t) just sit on the damn toilet.

Since conditions were not ideal, I reached for my phone and called the friend who lives closest to the park. Our conversation went something like, “Hello? My kid needs a warm and comfy place to poop. May we please use your home? Okaythanksbye.”

I shoved the children back into the car, simultaneously admonishing the little one to hold it for a few more minutes while begging forgiveness from the child who had to leave the park without really getting a chance to play. I prayed silently to the Gods of Semi Potty Trained Children that Bug could hold it in for the two minutes it would take to get to the house.

We raced out of the car and to the front door, which was pre-opened for our potentially catastrophic situation. We found a nice patch of carpet, where I stripped him down and diapered him up.

While I waited for Bug to do his thing, I wandered into the kitchen. “Would you prefer wine or beer?” my friend asked, while showing my 6-year-old various items from her refrigerator.  He chose pizza; I picked a bottle of red.

Bug’s underpants were replaced on his bottom, the boys ate with my friend’s children, and then off they ran into the basement. We made a meal of the pizza remains and some chips and salsa, savored the wine, and talked about nothing and everything. It wasn’t part of our plan to be there that day, but I was really glad that the day brought us there.

When the setting sun reminded me that we had places to be (bathed and in bed), I reluctantly rounded up the boys. The delicious buzz of “I just had an hour of adult conversation – with wine” eased me through the car ride chatter: “But when can we go back to that park? I won’t have to poop,” (I don’t believe you), “Can we go for a nightwalk when we get home?” (nope), “Do you think God made that really big house?” (…Do you think God made that really big house?…)

Back home, just the three of us, we bathed, brushed teeth, and gathered in bed for story time. The boys were agreeable and tired and snuggly. I tucked them in, then settled in for the night myself, happy to be alone, and happy that I wasn’t alone.

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About the Author

Alyssa Latala

Alyssa Latala lives in a house full of boys in suburban Chicago. She works for a national non-profit organization and hasn't yet discovered the secret to "work-life balance." She drinks too much coffee and blogs about parenthood at .