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Somewhere in the men’s restroom at Graham Emmanuel Baptist Church, there is a little boy’s pull-up on the floor.  And likely inside out.

I do not mention this because we are low on pull-ups or because I even want to talk about them.  But rather because my son wants his pull-up back.  “He forgot it,” he said.  And with a quivery lip, he added, “we have to go back and get it.”

Only I wasn’t going anywhere to retrieve a pull-up.  I was wondering instead how he could’ve forgotten the thing, as that’s got to be right up there with walking out of your underwear. Something I would know about if it happened to me. 

At lunch, and at the first complaint of, “they won’t stay up,” I’d stopped spreading mayonnaise long enough to peek down his drawers and see, in fact, his bare cheekies and nothing else. “Where’s your pull-up. bud?”  I’d asked. And his face got concerned.  “I don’t know,” he’d started to say.  But he’d only shrugged his shoulders and held his palms up.  And then he’d started to cry.

And though it was just an inverted, dirty pull-up, left in an unknown stall,

I held him against me…

Buns and all.


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