Life with a toddler is never dull, and what happened at the recent livestock show was no exception. As we entered the show barn, I was amazed at what I saw; rows of caged rabbits graced almost an entire side of the barn. It was going to be darn near impossible to find my oldest son, Jonathan’s, rabbits amongst the sea of long ears and wriggling noses.

“Look Mommy, it’s a bunny family reunion!” Robert said squealing. Anxiously, he wrenched his sweaty hand out of my grasp, racing across the sandy arena toward the rabbits, leaving small puffs of dust in his wake. Two hundred and forty-six pairs of long slender ears snapped to attention as an excited Robert approached.

I considered renewing my membership to the local gym as I, weighed down with Robert’s “travel” bag, plodded through the ankle-deep sand. I could have kissed the damp, hard packed livestock path when my tired legs reached it, but after seeing small, randomly placed, ammonia-smelling puddles dotting its surface, I reconsidered.

Finally, I reached my son, who, with his nose pressed against the side of a pen was having an exciting, one-sided conversation with a pen of anxious-looking bunnies. “Robert,” I said, laying my hand on his shoulder and whispering in his ear, “we use our quiet voices with the rabbits, remember?” Mutely, he nodded his head. “Let’s look at the rest of the bunnies, okay?” I asked, taking him by the hand. He jerked his hand out of mine--plugging his ears against the sound of an indignant pig’s squeal—but seemed content to remain by my side.

After some searching, Robert and I found Seth’s bunny pen, and waited there for Seth and his dad. They arrived a few minutes later, each carrying a duffel bag that held canvas camping chairs. They set the chairs up in front of the pen, and then disappeared into the crowd, leaving me with an impatient toddler.

“Mommy, I’m hungry.” Robert stated, his face contorting into an all too familiar pout. I knew he must be starved. That morning at the house, amidst all the confusion and excitement, he hadn’t eaten much. Knowing that he’d be peckish later, I’d filled his blue backpack sized “traveling” bag with assorted bags of crackers and “one serving” boxes of cereal.

“Well, let’s see what I can find,” I said, rummaging through his bag. “I have cheese crackers. . .peanut butter crackers—“

“No, I want Coco Puffs.”

“I don’t think we have any. There’s Cheerios, Honeycomb—“

“I. . .want. . .COCO PUFFS!” Robert demanded hotly.

I didn’t have to look up from the bag to know that Robert was standing behind me in tantrum throwing mode—fists clenched, face a tomato red, body rigid with anger.

Normally, at home, he would have been placed in “time out”; but now, already worn down from lack of sleep, I did the unthinkable. I humored him. “Look, no Coco Puffs,” I announced, dumping the contents of the bag on a camping chair.

“Yes there is. There’s some over here,” Robert argued, running over to the livestock path and scooping something out of the dirt.

My stomach churned, and a wave of nausea washed over me when he returned and showed me his prize. There, in his chubby hand, were perfectly round balls of goat dung.

“See, Coco Puffs!” he announced proudly. My breakfast threatened to come up and make friends with the arena dirt as Robert brought the poop closer to his lips, preparing to take a bite.

“That’s. . .not Coco Puffs, baby,” I said quickly, knocking the dung out of his hand.

“What is it?” he demanded, obviously distraught that his mommy had destroyed—what he thought was—a delicious snack.

“It’s goat poop.”

“It’s good?”

“No, it’s nasty. It’s doo-doo, like you make in the toilet,” I explained patiently.

“Ewww, nasty!” Robert exclaimed.

Taking him by the hand—the non-poop holding one—we went to the restroom where we washed our hands SEVERAL times. Returning to our seats, Robert was content to nibble on a package of cheese crackers. I, on the other hand, still feeling nauseous, slumped in the adjoining chair, wishing for a milkshake made out of Maalox.

The moral of the story: Watch what your children eat, especially at livestock shows; and with a toddler, always be ready for the unexpected



Debbie Roppolo is a published freelance writer whose works have appeared online, in magazines, and in anthology collections such as Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul. She resides in the Texas Hill Country with her husband, two children, a Malamute, two cats, and a family of rabbits.