>>24685366
“You don’t look happy to be here. Try and look happy to be here,” Mom says as we both enter the background-designated trailer bathroom. I’d been holding my poop for an hour and couldn’t hold it anymore, so I finally asked a person with a walkie-talkie if I could please go, even though Mom tells me I might be labeled difficult for doing so.
“Sorry,” I say while I poop and Mom wets a paper towel with water. I’m embarrassed she still insists on wiping my butt. I tried to tell her recently that now that I’m eight, I think I can handle it, but she looked like she was gonna cry and said she needs to do it until I’m at least ten because she doesn’t want skid marks on my Pocahontas underwear. I know if I did it there wouldn’t be skid marks, but it’s Mom’s tears I’m more worried about.
“Just stop frowning, okay?” Mom asks, to ensure I’ve heard her request. “Your eyebrows are all bent in and angry-looking.”
Wipe. Wipe. Wipe.