Little boy poops in his pants. Last week, I ignored it because, well, at 2 he’s capable of people sized poo. He’s got a diaper on and it seemed well contained. He didn’t seem to mind and we played with blocks and trucks and I made his stuffed animals fall off of towers endlessly. The whole house smelled. I opened the windows. His Mom came home and I realized that the baby had pooped in addition so now we really had a mess. I apologized. She was gracious.

So, anyway, the little boy poops his pants an hour before Mom comes home and I’m thinking: I’ve got to do this. Who cares? It’s just poop, like cleaning out a litter box or stepping in dog doo. Whatever. I’m being paid well, I should just suck it up. “Did you poo your pants, buddy?” I asked, real cheerful like I poop my pants all the time and we’re just hanging out. “Yes,” he says, shortly. I sigh, “Well come on.” I take his sister and put her on the bed, in the middle, propping her up on a really floppy pillow. It’s amazing to me how portable infants are, simply incredible. It’s as if I accesorized the comforter with a stuffed animal or something. She isn’t very mobile but I am worried she might suffocate herself in the folds of this super pillow–especially since she’s teething and she immediately stuffs the corner of the pillow in her mouth. I pledge to keep an eye on her.

“Hey buddy, come into the changing room,” I yell, wanting to get this over with. The baby is drooling up a storm; I find a bib that says, “I love my daddy” and put it on her. I go into the living room and see that the little boy is hiding behind a rocking chair. “What are you doing? Don’t you want me to change you?” He shakes his head, sheepishly. “You sure?” I say. He nods and refuses to leave his hiding place. “Are you embarrassed?” I say, not even certain he knows the word. “Yes, I embarrassed,” the little guy is truly serious. He does not want his baby-sitter near his diaper. “OK, but that means you’re going to have to sit in your poo for a while,” I say. The boy nods knowingly, “Sit in my poo.”

And so he did. And I was relieved. The two of us had reached an agreement: I wasn’t terribly excited about changing a boy of his age’s diaper and he wasn’t interested in letting me. Done.