Three Words

When our daughter and her family visited from England a few years back, I bonded quickly with 18-month-old Alice. Her ability to communicate using an amalgam of single-word sentences and sign language struck me as nothing short of miraculous.

A few days into the visit, Alice’s dad left for his favorite haunt, Henderson’s Used Books, and the females, plotting a pedicure outing, asked if I could watch Allce. Since she was napping, I consented, not realizing how I would tempt fate by secretly savoring a little quiet time for myself.

Within the hour, expressions of distress emanated from Alice’s room, and I peeked in to check. She stood whining and gripping the rails of her crib, and from across the room, my nose identified the problem. As cautiously as I tried to lift her, there was no denying the ominous squishing sound. Toting the squirming child at arm’s length, I laid her on the changing table. By now, cocoa-colored liquid had spotted my arm. It definitely wasn’t urine. Maintaining a world-record breath hold, I unsnapped her onesie and peeled it off. Liquid poo slithered up her back and under her t-shirt. It must be what moms call ‘diaper blowout.’ Aahh!

Half a box of Wet Ones later, Alice was reasonably clean if you ignored a few brown streaks in her hair. Brown smears ran across my arms, and dollops of poo decorated my shirt. “How would you like a tubby?” I coughed while gasping for air. Sweeping her into the bathroom, I plunked the stinking toddler into the tub and turned on the water.

Supporting Alice with one hand, I was adjusting the water temperature with the other when I heard the front door open. Down the hall came the welcome chatter of the gals. At least someone had fun this afternoon.

Alice’s mom stepped into the bathroom to investigate the sound of splashing water. “Oh, a tubby!” She glanced at my shirt, and her eyes widened. “Is everything okay?”

 Before I could utter a word, Alice blurted out, “Poo-poo.” Frowning, she pointed at me. “Bapa.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief as she added, “UH-OHHH!!”

My daughter erupted in side-splitting laughter. In three simple words, Alice had told the entire story. Such mastery of the language would have made Hemingway jealous.

 I have yet to match Alice’s brevity, which remains an elusively high bar for my writing. Three words, I tell myself. Three words, only to write four hundred.

My apologies, dear reader, and thank you for indulging my long-winded story.