Take Me, Mommy

by Polly Hansen

            When I was six, one summer night Mom and a close family friend named Krauthamel took my older brother and sister and me out on the town in Baltimore. I don’t know where Dad was. Maybe it was during the time my parents were separated. Tiggy and I were in our nightgowns and barefoot. Mom and Krauthamel passed a bottle of wine in a brown paper bag between them as we traipsed from one fountain to another, splashing through them and picking up pennies which we threw back into the shimmering blue water that lit up our faces like a flashlight in the dark.  
           At one fountain a cute statue of a naked little boy stood on the rim of the basin. “Why are these parts all shiny?” I asked, rubbing the parts of him not covered in a green patina. Mom and Krauthamel sniggered, and I pulled my hand away sensing something nasty about what I was doing. 
           “Because people like to rub them,” said Mom, “just like you.” 
           We ended up in Federal Hill Park overlooking the lit-up harbor. The chink of metal hitting against masts and the hoot of fog horns floated across the water up the dark hill to where we sat on a park bench. 
           “Mom, I need to go to the bathroom,” I said, tapping her shoulder. Krauthamel was telling a story about the time he got stuck in the Virgin Islands during a typhoon. 
           “Just hold it, honey,” Mom said. I tried to, but soon tapped her shoulder again. Mom looked around the park and pointed down the hill. “You see that restaurant down there where all those people are sitting on that patio? They’ll have a bathroom you can use.” 
           I tugged on her hand. “You have to take me, Mommy.” 
           “Don’t be such a baby, Polly. Just go. You’ll be fine.” 
           I imagined walking amongst the tables in my nightgown and all the people staring at me. 
           “Take me, please,” I said, but she would not. Tiggy and David wouldn’t go with me either. Finally, unable to hold it any longer, I found a dark place behind a park bench, squatted down, and pooped. When I finished, I was so relieved I scampered about and told Mom I was all better. 
           “Where did you end up going?” she asked. 
           I pointed. Mom and Krauthamel snorted with laughter. An elderly man was sitting on a bench a short way from us. I had used his shadowy figure for privacy.  
           “He must wonder where the stink is coming from,” Mom said. But I had taken care of myself and felt so much better. I didn’t care how much she laughed at me.  

Polly Hansen (she/her) is the winner of Memoir Magazine’s 2022 Memoir Book Prize in the coming-of-age category for her as yet unpublished memoir NASTY GIRL. She is a producer of two nationally syndicated radio programs Radio Health Journal and Viewpoints, and has a master’s degree in flute performance. Although she has written hundreds of articles for various trade publications, “Take Me, Mommy,” is her first publication in a literary journal. She blogs about self-love and intimacy at pollyhansen.com. You can also find her on Twitter: @9ofPentacles.