Old MacDonald

When Martina was about 3 she had some funny rituals which all centered around her … ah … bathroom activities. Going potty was obviously a pleasant activity for her, one during which her typical verbalizations included things like, “Mommy? I love you. I love you so, so, so, so much.” The word ‘much’ sounded more like, ‘muksh.’ Still does. Still precious.

She also sang songs. Over the years until now, when she finally closes the bathroom door when she’s on the toilet, she has run through quite a repertoire of crap-taking songs but here is our family’s favorite story about Martina and her ‘muksh’ loved poopoo choruses.
Old MacDonald
We, all 7 of us, were camping in the Smokies in July. Somehow we had managed to choose a week during which 2, count ’em 2, tropical storms passed through the Great Smokies. Lucky us. The brand new tent we had purchased for the kids, which had rooms in it, had collapsed during the first storm leaving the pop up camper packed with breath, feet and farts. We slept, packed in asshole to elbow that whole week and escaped each day for some great excursion.
One day we rode the Great Smoky Mountain Railroad from Bryson City to Nantahala Gorge. Another we almost killed ourselves tubing in the flood swollen Ocanaluftee River. But on the day in question we went for a drive to visit Fontana Lake.
We were all in our bathing suits, a cooler full of cold beer and soda pop and lunch was at hand and we were headed for the water. We finally found a place to park with a swimming spot nearby and we all walked right out into the water, wee Martina included. Just one catch, as I carried her in she informed me that she needed to, ah, relieve her bowels. Being the wonderful and loving spouse I am, I called Mark, “Mark! Mark! Martina needs to sing Old MacDonald!” He patiently, lovingly and obediently swam back from wherever he was headed (the other side of the lake hell bent for leather) and swooped up Little Miss Chubster and paddled off with lifejacket clad body in front of him.
Randall and I hid beside the van and laughed ourselves into tears. The other kids stood watching, horrified, lest anyone else should notice what was happening. Mark treaded water way out there somewhere with his youngest child in hand. Martina sang, “Old MacDonald had a fawm, eieioh…” and somewhere in there a few floaters popped up in the vicinity of my youngest kid and my old man.
God love them. I sat on a bucket, wiped away the tears and popped open a cold Newcastle. I’m the Mama but there are a few things I’m just not equipped to handle. Old MacDonald in the midst of a mountain lake being one of them.
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About Blue Eagle Dreamer

Shamanic High Priestess and facilitator of empowerment and healing circles for girls and women, including a monthly Red Tent Temple. BA in English, minor in anthropology. Waldorf homeschool mom. Reiki master, cranial sacral therapist, herbalist, menstruvist, feminist, epicurian.
This entry was posted in aleia, children, Elizabeth, family, Mark, Martina, parenting, personal, Randall, travel, Travis. Bookmark the permalink.

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