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“Mommeee.”  His voice was quivery.  “Right here.” I answered.  And then asked, “You all right?”  I was just inches away, but the blue door between us made it difficult to see anything but his bare buns and his underwear at his ankles. And that was squinting through the crack.  He shuffled to the lock and let me in.  And then he pointed to the wall behind the toilet and cried. “I peed there.”  He was right. Dripping down the wall, coating the flusher and most of the seat was a potty stream only another male could be proud of.   And though I wanted to blurt, “um… how did you manage that,” I leaned his head on my leg instead.  “It’s okay, bud,” I heard myself say.  “You worry about your drawers there, and I’ll clean this up.”  Then armed with half-ply toilet paper and half a smile, I dabbed away. 

The third stall at the YMCA would need a little more TLC, say with gloves and a sponge.  But my little guy’s conscience was clean.

And well, I could live with that.

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