Mr. Poon is Coming

This back by popular demand. Written in 2005ish, from the teenaged-boy year.

We adopted a boy from Ethiopia in October. We have no idea how old he really is. There are no birth certificates in Ethiopia, so everyone just kind of guesses and then the Ethiopian government sort of makes up a birth date so that you can have some kind of birth certificate to bring back to America to prove that your child exists. Our birth certificate says our son is "12," although all of us, including our son, think he is more like 13 or 14. But it's hard to say.

The first thing we had to do with C. when we came back to America was bring him to the doctor. A large quantity of blood was taken. Many tests were administered. Genitals were ogled in a professional manner. Toenail fungus was observed. Knees were tapped, questions were asked, although C. could not understand most of them and it was up to me to answer as best I could. Our child was found totally healthy, other than the toenail fungus. However, we still had to check for intestinal parasites. This meant a stool sample had to be taken. We were given a container for collection and instructions that the sample could not touch the toilet water, but had to be captured pristine and without contact with potential parasites.

How to solve this problem? We finally came upon the idea of newspaper, like with a puppy. It was quickly decided that, once deposited, the sample would be collected by Ross, as I have a notoriously weak stomach, and frequently gag at even the mention of something vaguely unpleasant. Just now as I am writing this, I am thinking of Eric Van Geisen's "long hair in the muffin" story from high school, and how, even now as I remember it, I feel the reflex coming on. I gag from pungent smells, gross stories, the idea of black licorice, and, on most mornings, brushing my teeth. Ross would be the poop collector. Agreed.

The larger problem still remained of how to explain this procedure to C, who spoke almost no English. How, using only broken English and gestures, do you explain to an adolescent boy that, rather than using the perfectly good toilet, he has to take a shit on a spread out newspaper? And how do we further explain that this only happens one time, and then he is supposed to go back to the toilet again? How arbitrary our rules must seem. His vocabularly did not simplify things. For some unknown reason, he insisted on calling it "poon," which of course means something entirely different to his snickering parents. You find yourself saying something like, "OK, so when poon is coming, no toilet sit. Tell Daddy, he put papers, you poop here on papers," and then acting it out, squatting over newspapers spread on your bathroom floor and pantomiming a pooping face, making your hands into fists, as though that's actually how you do it. As though we all make big straining faces and ball our hands into fists, as opposed to just quietly reading a magazine or doing sudoku.

The first time we explained, C said he understood. Then, he came out of the bathroom and proudly called Ross in, pointing to his poop floatly boldly in the toilet. Unflushed, yes, but, unfortunately flagrantly wallowing in the tainted and forbidden toilet water. Another day passed before we could try again. C is fiercly regular.

The next morning, Ross again explained what had to happen and showed C the newspapers. This time, Chernet had figured it out. When the time came, he called Ross in, and Ross spread out the newspapers and left the bathroom. A few minutes later, our son confidently left the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. Immediately, an unspeakable smell began to fill the apartment. I took one whiff and started to gag and fled as far from the bathroom as I could, still choking on the hideous stench. Ross and I started opening windows. I couldn't believe that anything could smell so bad. I couldn't help but peek down the long hallway to see what was causing all the trouble. I spied something long, snakey, and reddish-brown, lying perfectly centered on the newspaper square. Instantly the gag reflex returned. I hurried to the piano and started to play the most complicated pieces I could find, anything to avoid thinking about the horrible specimen that lay quietly in the bathroom, awaiting my intrepid husband.

Ross picked up the collection jar. I heard heavy footsteps start down the hallway, falter, then start again, hesitantly at first, but then picking up speed as he girded himself for the ordeal to come. The jar opened, and I immediately heard a loud, gagging cough. Then again. My piano playing grew louder. Selfishly, I thought, "Is he going to puke? Oh, God, how will we clean it up?" Ross rallied. I heard the jar close, then the rustling of paper and several plastic bags as he folded up what remained and brought it outside to the trash. Then the running of water as he washed his hand repeatedly in the sink. Just in case.

We hopped in the car to deliver the goods, and all Ross kept mumbling was, "Oh, and it was all snaking around and stuff!" Somehow, the fact that the poop had been deposited in a sort of swirl shape was more than he could handle. Well, that and the stench. But at least the stench was something we had experienced together.The horrid coil was his memory to carry alone.