So then there was the thing in Huntington Beach where a little girl got diarrhea right outside Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. Long story short, they wouldn’t let her use their bathroom, which is intended solely for employees. The poor kid apparently soiled herself, and wound up cleaning up at the very same movie theatre where our family saw Kung Fu Panda last weekend! Small world.

I’m a mom, and I feel bad for everyone involved. Bad for the store manager, who actually received threats of (1) death and (2) having her home pelted with feces. Bad for the kid, who was only five years old and who must have had an awful time of it. Bad for her mom, who must have been at her wits’ end. (Footnote: I received a lot more bathroom sympathy when visibly pregnant and claiming I had to pee. Retailers would practically build me a bathroom if I came in and said I had to go.)

But the bit of the story that really sticks with me? They said diarrhea and Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory in the same sentence. Hee.

God, I’m puerile.

We had the most interesting visit to the local reptile zoo yesterday.

There is a giant O-shaped pond in the center of the store, which is populated by red-eared sliders [water turtles], large koi and catfish, and a giant monitor lizard. They sell cups of mealworms for the kids to feed to the turtles with long tweezers, and the boys were standing by the side of the pond feeding turtles when the monitor lizard, basking on the central island, decided to move. This fucker is 4-5 feet long. It looks like it could eat you; at the very least, it looked like it could eat Boolie.

The monitor leaped into the water, scaring the crap out of a number of the large fish, who startled and splashed a ton of water onto the bystanders — mostly, on Sam and me. Then it swam through the pond and started hauling itself over the wall of the pond and onto the store floor. Boolie was terrified and went to hide behind a display island. The lizard was really agitated. And kind of scary.

It landed on the floor of the store, took a huge runny dump right in the middle of the central area, and strode off to the back of the store. Ewww, it took a dump! I said, causing a group of nearby boys to titter. The store personnel didn’t notice, and I didn’t want someone to slip and fall in the shit and sue them [that’s us, always seeing the liability angle], so I went up and told the guy Your giant lizard took a big poop in the middle of the floor. He had to clean it up with paper towels. I suppose that’s a liability of being in the reptile business.

The boys are still talking about it. We’ve gone to the reptile zoo a number of times, but this is the only time we’ve encountered monitor lizard shit. And I don’t think it’s something they’ll forget very soon. Sam can’t wait to get to school and tell his friends about it tomorrow.

Oh shit, enough about rain. In other news:

Yesterday I brought the boys home in my van when Matt announced he urgently had to pee. As we’ve allowed him to do this in the past, he ran over to a nearby streetside tree and proceeded to pee on that. Sam must’ve thought it looked like fun, because the next thing I knew he had run over and was also peeing on the tree. So here I am in the middle of the street with my arms full of packages and my two male offspring marking their territory like dogs.

Did I punish them? I did not. What I did was tell them You know, if you pee on a tree, you might accidentally pee on a BEE, and then the bee will fly over and sting you on the peepee.

Without further ado, they agreed that peeing was better done indoors. Psychology: It really works.

Matt, who is four years old, was using the toilet this afternoon in the master suite, and called in to the bedroom for Ben or me to come help him with the paperwork, as it were. Ben came in and left the door ajar; I listened from the bedroom.

Look, Daddy! I made four turds, he said. See? One. Two. Three. Four.

I wonder if I should call the Sesame Street people? Surely they never thought of counting turds.

So I’ve been sick for about a week — the diagnosis is gastroenteritis, although I’m not at all certain that’s not just a medical code word for a tummy ache of unknown origin.

But they wanted to do some diagnostic tests. So they filled out the form and sent me to the lab, where they drew my blood and then presented me with three sets of plastic vials for stool samples.

People, have you ever? Just reading the instructions was enough to give me the shivers, and I am here to tell you that I would have to be at Death’s door before I’d agree to fool around with my own shit. Ben and I have been dealing with baby shit and dog shit nonstop for nearly six years now, and I DO NOT WANT ADDITIONAL POOP-RELATED ACTIVITIES IN MY LIFE. Especially when those activities are meant to be hands-on (”If the stool is solid, try to get samples from each end and from the center.”)

I mean, my God. The stuff isn’t Play-Doh, y’all — I’m not going to go digging around in it! I wonder if there is someone I can HIRE to do this? For now, I am keeping my poop where it belongs (versus kicking around in the outside world). Because this is just TOO. MUCH.