Full disclosure

Scene: Return flight back to NYC from Ft. Lauderdale.
We packed in a rush because we had decided to squeeze in a trip to the beach, and a quick swim in the pool. We took the hotel bus to the airport. It had started to rain, but only after we were under airport roofs. Our flight was delayed due to weather. No problem--we hadn't really eaten lunch, so we scarfed some huge hamburgers and fries at our gate. The flight was very full, and running late so they started asking for volunteers to check their bags (for free), and I decided to check all our main bags--they were all carry-on size, but it made it much easier for us to get in and out of the plane since Simon can't totally manage his by himself.
We finally get onto the plane, full and happy, and the kids discover that yet again everyone has personal video monitors and a nice selection of free movies. (Simon-Cars, Jonah-Meet the Robinsons, Maya-The Tooth Fairy, Kristin-The Bourne Identity). Life was good. Until Simon gave me The Look.
This child of mine doesn't like to poop. Here is a conversation he had with his pediatrician 6 months ago:
Simon: I no go poop ever!
Dr.: If you don't go poop, you will die. Everyone poops.
Simon: I no care. I no go poop!
The Dr. then proceeded to give me (instead of the prescription laxative I was asking for, a copy of the book Your Difficult Child)
Sigh.
It is a long story, with lots of stomach churning details. We've been down this road before, with child #1, and I thought I had things figured out, but alas, Simon's ability to withhold is pretty impressive. He's been using the toilet for about 6 months now, but we are limping along with the poop thing. It has been better lately, but it is definitely an issue.
But as soon as the plane took off, it became clear that he had to go. I quickly counted back and realized that it had been a couple of days since he'd gone #2. Remembering the success of the last one, I felt optimistic--I had caught him about to crouch in a corner and whisked him onto a toilet where I was rewarded with the biggest, longest poop that has ever come out of the body of a 3-year old. Here's what he does though. When he needs to go, he holds it with all his might. In general, the feeling of needing to go comes in waves--he can hold it several times, but when it's been a couple of days...well, there starts to be a lot of pressure backing up that bad boy, and eventually he just can't keep it all in.
So this is the situation I found myself in as our airplane took to the air. I took this child to the airplane bathroom at least 5 times during the flight. I squeezed both of us into the tiny cubicle. I took off his shorts, his underwear, his shoes and socks so he could straddle the toilet seat in typical toddler fashion. He would sit there for 27 seconds and say "I no need to go. I just peetending." I would bend over, my behind bumping into the pocket door, and painstakingly re-dress him, hoping there was enough fresh air in this enclosed space to keep me from passing out from the stifling closeness. Luckily we were in the aisle seats and only a few rows from the bathroom. I resented having to pause my movie, but truth be told, I had never counted on being able to watch a whole movie myself on a flight with a 3 year old, so it wasn't bothering me so much. Then I hear:
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to begin our descent into the New York area..."
I told Simon he couldn't go to the bathroom again until we got to the airport.
"Oh tay Mama. I watch my booty" (Booty=movie).
And then. He dumped an enormous load in his pants. Right as we started to head down, our tray tables in the upright position. We couldn't get out of our seats. So he had to sit in it for about 20 painful minutes. As soon as the plane reached the gate, I hauled him into the now very familiar room. I stood him on the closed toilet and started to excavate.
You guys, there has never been a poop like this one. Not since the day I was about the same age and pooped my pants in church while singing "Father Abraham". I was marching at the time, and standing up, but when I sat down? Well, it went all the way down my tights and all the way up my back, and when I got home from church my mom hosed me down in the driveway.
I wished, so badly, that I had a hose and a driveway. Preferably a hose with really cold water so I could feel some sort of vindictive payback toward the one who caused me such a nasty chore. But no, I had a tiny airplane bathroom with a sink that trickled and some paper towels. It was disgusting. The water turned off mid-process, since the plane had landed. Excellent! When I peeked out to ask for a BIGGER GARBAGE BAG, I saw that the entire plane was empty except for my other two children. I had to throw away underwear and shorts, and I couldn't entirely remove poop caked on Simon's legs, all the way down to his ankles.
But OK, that enormous pile of refuse? Behind us! Simon was feeling like a million bucks and he was all cheerful and chatty "I sorry I go poop in my pants Mama!"
We head to an airport bathroom where I can wash my hands several times with hot water and soap...and I discover that my monthly visitor has announced itself to...everyone. I'm wearing light colored khaki pants. No sweatshirt to tie around my waist. My clothes are at the baggage claim. This has never happened to me, not once in all my years of being female. Deep breath. Well, at this point, nothing to do but march off and deal with it.
On the people mover Simon says: "Mama, something red on your pants." I ignore him, but Jonah, thinking I didn't hear him or understand him is trying to be helpful and so he translates.
Can I tell you how much I really don't want to hear this information or want to talk to my children at this point?
I hide in the corner while we wait for about a week for the baggage claim to start showing signs of containing actual baggage. My kids are distracted by looking for our suitcases, leaving me time to feel sorry for myself and my lot in life to have to spend so much time dealing with such issues. Baggage arrives, I grab clean clothes and go change in yet another bathroom...
We grab a taxi back to the city and our driver tries to convert me to Islam. I didn't have the heart to tell him he was talking to somebody so unclean, on so many different levels that he shouldn't even bother...He gives me a book to take home so I can think about it.
Simon has a bath at 11 pm. He screams because he "no want to take bath". But I finally get his legs to a point where he is permitted to touch his sheets with them.
And we all collapse into sleep. Happy to be home. Where there are clean clothes and roomy bathrooms and...LAUNDRY!