How my son Calvin smelled worse than a tiger with explosive bowels

Calvin in his tiger suit with sister Jennifer.

This is a simple story about the most explosive shit my son ever took. I was unprepared as usual. What did this kid eat? I asked at the time. How could anyone shit his pants so fully?

Here's how we get to that fateful day in the shadow of Seattle's Paramount Theater. I was a semi-young father, thinking I had an answer for things I didn't have a clue about.

It was Saturday, and Saturdays meant I had my son Calvin from about 5 a.m. until my wife finished delivering the mail in nearby Marysville, usually after 5 or 6 p.m. We lived on the west side of remote Camano Island near the beach. All the responsibilities she shouldered most of the previous week fell to me, and I wasn't all that great at dealing with them.

By responsibilities, I mean Calvin. He was a fussy kid. He needed a lot of distraction. I couldn't do anything else. No work, no projects. I once took him to my father's 5 acres on the south side of the island where we lived and did some maintenance. He was right next to me. The next thing I knew, he had wandered uphill to the highway and some older couple was escorting him back. The look the lady gave me was "what kind of inbred loser are you?"

Calvin was all or nothing. So those Saturdays, I kept him busy. I would bundle him up and head out running. I'd push him in the runner's stroller while Sajo, our black Lab, ran alongside. He loved it and would continue a running commentary of the trees, weeds, houses and the blasts of wind off Puget Sound. But that only took an hour. I ran just 5 miles.