Let me set the scene. Cooper and Fergus were sitting together at the picnic table, eating dinner, calmly munching their corn on the cob.
FERGUS: I hafta get something.
He goes inside. A moment later he sticks his head out the screen door.
FERGUS: Cooper. Did you know I touched a poop?
Cooper and I wait for the rest of the story. But apparently, that is the whole story. So after a moment:
MOMMY: Fergus. Did you REALLY touch your poop?
Fergus looks at me like that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.
FERGUS: Not MY poop, Mommy. Somebody else’s poop.
MOMMY: Somebody else’s poop that was in the toilet?
Fergus starts to lose his patience.
FERGUS: NO, Mommy! Somebody else’s poop that was AT CAMP!
MOMMY: (processing this) In the toilet at camp?
Fergus loses it.
FERGUS: NO!! Somebody else’s poop that was at camp ON THE FLOOR!!
COOPER: There was poop on the floor at camp?
FERGUS: That’s what I was trying to TELL YOU!!
MOMMY: Whose poop was it?
FERGUS: I DON’T KNOW!! I just touched it!
Cooper and Mommy take this in.
MOMMY: And then what happened, Fergus?
FERGUS: Nuffin. Nobody said anyfing.
Fergus goes back inside. Cooper and Mommy contemplate all of this in their hearts.
Seriously, that’s the end. Fergus won’t say another word about it. He gets furious if I bring it up; he has said everything he intends to on the matter.
I, on the other hand, can’t stop thinking about this incident. I am haunted by its ramifications, both hygienic and psychosocial. Not to mention, wondering how a turd ends up by itself on the floor. I told my mother this whole story, and she, with nearly forty years of mothering experience, had this pearl of wisdom to offer:
“Sometimes, you just have to accept: you’re never going to get the whole story.”