Fair Oaks Farms

In 2018, I was living in Chicago and working as a nanny for a family that had four kids. There were two girls and two boys. The two girls were 9 and 7 and the two boys were twin boys, 4 years old. These kids were my world. I adored them all so, so much. They were two like four big balls of energy. It didn’t matter what parks we went to or how many times I’d chase them around the house, they were always go, go, go. I loved that but it got exhausting real quick. The way they’d move and talk, it was so joyous and fun but it was also a lot of work. I was sort of consumed with how I could possibly keep up. It started to make me nervous. I became anxious that I wasn’t a good nanny. Which. Made me anxious about being a mom one day. If I can’t be a good nanny, how could I be a good mom?

One morning, their father and I were talking before he left for work and he told me about this place in Indiana called Fair Oaks that was forty-five minutes away. Fair Oaks was a farm but it was also like a giant play center for kids. I told him I could handle it and I grabbed the keys to their minivan. Indiana, here we come. The drive went totally fine, except when we got into Indiana and I saw the speed limit was 75 and I was like “oh my god I have a van full of children and I’m going almost 80 miles an hour oh my god oh my god”. That was wild. Anyways, we get to the farm and we all climb out of the minivan. I paid for our admission and the kids were off. They had playgrounds and exhibits about corn. It was turning into a really nice day. The kids were entertained and I really couldn’t do much to screw it up! 

We get to their rope course and the youngest boys are too small to do it but the older girls could handle it. While the girls were laughing and enjoying their time in the air, the boys chased each other around below. Mark, one of the boys, started complaining that his stomach hurt. I could smell his stinky four-year old farts and I was certain it was because he had to poop. When I asked him if he had to use the bathroom, he loudly and strongly declared “no”. After about 5 minutes of stomach gurgling and more four-year old flatulence, I finally decided I needed to drag him to the nearest bathroom. As he tried pulling my hand off of his, I spoke with the person operating the ropes course. She confirmed it would be fine if I ran off for a couple of minutes. She’d keep an eye on the girls and his brother. God bless. 

Mark and I are in this public restroom and I’m begging him to use the bathroom. He’s fighting me and fighting me and I want to scream and shout and throw him on the toilet. Instead, I take his hand and calmly explain to him it’ll help his tummy if he goes to the bathroom. He finally agrees to try. We get into the stall. He pulls his shorts down and I see his underwear. He. Yeah. He pooped himself. 

I don’t think twice. I quickly grab his shorts and underwear and head to the sink. I use the hand soap and water and scrub his underwear. With my bare hands, I  literally wipe his underwear clean. I turn into a fucking-human-washing-machine, so this little boy, who is in my care, can be comfortable for the rest of the day. And as I’m standing there, soapy poop in hand, I’m thinking about Mark. Is he okay in the stall? I’m thinking about his brother playing all by himself while his sisters are doing this fun activity without him. Is he okay? Are the girls okay? I left them with this stranger which I know wasn’t the best choice but I didn’t want to take them from their fun to sit in a bathroom with me. I hope they’re all okay and I hope they enjoy this day I’m making possible. And then it hits me. I’m doing a good job. I’m doing a great job. I love this. I absolutely love taking care of kids. And I’m really good at it. I bet I’d be a good mom. I bet I’d be a great mom. 

I wring out Mark's wet underwear, put it under the hand dryer, and pat him on the back. I can do this. I am going to make a great mom one day.