We were at Drumlin Farm, enjoying a balmy winter day that was beginning to show signs of dusk. Little Boy had spent a solid 2.5 hours romping around with two friends, running and laughing in between visits to the cows, pigs, goats, sheep, and chickens. The other parents and I gently nudged our excited crew to the parking lot; engaged in a game of tag, Little Boy needed little prodding up the steep hill to the visitor’s center, as he raced in hot pursuit of his friend, exuberant and dogged.
When we reached the visitor’s center, Little Boy suddenly stopped running and pointed to the door that leads to a hallway of bathrooms. “You need to go to the bathroom, honey?” I asked, walking casually, a little winded from the brisk walk up the hill.
He nodded, his eyes wide. I opened the door and ushered him towards the family bathroom. When I closed the door, I felt a little hand gripping my left arm. I looked down to see Little Boy jumping lightly with a pained expression on his little face.
“You okay, honey? Shinty? Caca?” I asked, using our Amharic potty words.
He stared at me, his hand still clenching my arm, his facial expressions fluid and emotional. Then, in a hoarse voice several registers lower than normal, he whispered, “Caca’s coming.”
I immediately began pulling off his pants and got him on the pot just in time. I’ll tactfully end the story right here, but man. That was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever heard come out of Little Boy’s mouth. It sounded as if he was suddenly possessed by a demon, like the little girl in The Exorcist. The caca demon.
