Poop in a Cornfield

by Bobby Sprinkle

My wife, Wynde, and I decided to take the family on a trip to see Colonial Williamsburg, Jamestown, and the surrounding Virginia area. Wynde was eight months pregnant with our sixth child but we felt autumn was the perfect time of year for the trip. Our kids traveled well and we’re the slightly adventurous types. Did I mention we were expecting our sixth child?

The day before we were to leave there was a minor family emergency. The long and short of it was the kids’ cousins needed someone to watch over them. To help out, we agreed to take the two oldest cousins with us on our trip. That would keep them out of the way for the week and besides our kids loved their cousins. We had a twelve passenger van, so space was no issue. Our trip, with very little notice, got a little bit crazier.

We were driving up from Tampa, Florida and stopped in North Carolina to spend the night. Early the next day, after breakfast, we were on our way. I had decided it would be fun to take the ferry over the James River. To do this, you had to leave the Interstate and travel through about 40 miles of backwoods, costal Virginia. That’s where the fun started.

We were traveling down roads that were becoming increasingly narrow when it happened.

“Daddy,” came the tentative voice of my oldest, Sophie Grace, in the back. “I think Katya has pooped in her pants.”

My mind didn’t fully comprehend that comment. “What,” I said quizzically. “What did you say?”

“Katya has pooped in her pants,” came the answer more strongly.

I guess I wasn’t registering why one kid was telling me that another kid had pooped in their pants. Why wasn’t the poopee speaking?

“Katya,” I said, looking in the rear view mirror. “Did you poop in your pants? Why didn’t you say something?” It must have come out harsher than I intended. I felt my wife’s hand on my arm.

“She’s embarrassed,” came Wynde’s voice soothingly. “Its ok Katya. We’ll take care of it.”

My wife looked at me with a wry smile. “Find a place to pull over.”

I looked down the road. We had been driving for miles on back roads. The actual road we were on was only one lane. I had been praying for the last twenty minutes that we wouldn’t meet a car coming the other direction because there was simply no room. There were cornfields right up to the edge of the road until I couldn’t see around the next curve.

I was frustrated.

“Where exactly would you like me to pull over?” I asked.

“Just find the next available place and pull over,” she said looking back into the van.

The next curve in the road did reveal a small clearing near the side of the road. I pulled the van into it, still leaving it half onto the road, and turned off the engine. I kept silently praying about oncoming cars.

“Katya, honey,” my wife called sweetly. “Come on out and I’ll clean you up.”

After a few minutes by the side of the van, some wipeys for clean up and a new change of clothes; we were on our way.

We hadn’t gone a mile when William, Katya’s younger brother, spoke up.

“Uncle Bobby, I need to go to the bathroom.”

I looked at my wife with imploring eyes. Was he serious? She returned a look that spoke volumes about limiting my response.

“Can it wait until we find a gas station?” I asked.

“No, I need to go now.”

“Alright, hang on.” I started scanning the side of the road again. Luckily, I spotted a slightly bigger clearing pretty soon thereafter and pulled over again. By slightly bigger, I mean that I managed to get the whole van into it … barely. It was surrounded closely by corn fields that appeared to be just about ready for harvest.

William and Wynde got out and moved behind the van. I wondered if it was something they ate. Maybe they didn’t travel as well as our kids. They’d been to the Ukraine three times so it couldn’t be that.

I continued musing on why Wynde was so much better at dealing with poop than me. It wasn’t like I hadn’t changed a gazillion diapers. I had even had a kid actually poop directly on me; although this was most likely incompetence on my part rather than malice

on the child’s. Were women somehow genetically or culturally informed on poop management?

My thoughts were interrupted by my second daughter, Isabelle.

“Daddy, I need to go to the bathroom too.”

I shrugged my shoulders. We were already stopped anyway. “Ok Belley, go on out and tell Mommy.” Yes, I passed it on to my wife, the poop expert.

Within seconds everyone else in the van needed to go to the bathroom. Sophie Grace, Adah, Jon Robert, and Katya (again) all wanted to go as well. Only Ruby sat comfortably in her diaper, not understanding at all this need to poop anywhere but wherever she was.

I’m not sure I can adequately describe the scene. You have to imagine six kids, scattered around a small clearing surrounded by towering corn stalks, all squatting and pooping. Wynde and I stood by the van taking it all in.

She suddenly looked at me with a funny expression. “I wonder if its something we ate because now I have to go.”

I was beginning to wonder if I wasn’t witnessing first hand some strange manifestation of groupthink. I was pretty sure Adah didn’t have to go at all but didn’t want to miss out on the fun.

Wynde, being more modest than the typical under eight crowd, moved some way into the corn taking the wipeys with her.

I looked at Ruby nestled in my arms. “You have no idea, how lucky you are at this moment in your life,” I told her.

As the kids began to finish their business, a new problem asserted itself. We had a limited supply of wipeys. We had a small number set aside for the trip while the rest were tucked deep in our luggage somewhere. After fishing out the appropriate bag, I dug around until I found them, all the while cursing the poop gods. I wondered what we would have done it we weren’t traveling with a child still in diapers. How much did I really like my t-shirts?

Finally, everyone had finished and been cleaned up to the appropriate levels. Ruby and I still seemed to be immune to whatever had passed through the van. Faced with the possibility of dealing with three pounds of soiled wipeys, I quailed at the thought.

To whatever farmer’s field we left those in, I apologize. I hope the fertilizer makes up for it.

About forty five minutes later, including another stop for potty breaks (this one nicely timed with a gas station), we pulled onto the James River ferry. I noted with some disappointment that we had only missed by about an hour being able to poop right where the original English settlers pooped.

Wynde looked at me, her eyes twinkling, “I don’t think Virginia will ever be the same.”