My mom jokes about how whenever she Skypes with us it's like watching "The Tounget Show". Well, a few days ago we had an episode that would have made for some pretty great reality tv. *Be warned: This story takes place in a bathroom and involves talk of poop*
The boys and I packed ALL day Friday; we spent the morning and early afternoon Saturday doing car maintenance (or watched my helpful neighbors do it for me), then we left Wake Forest at 1 in the afternoon with the CRV packed to the gills. We had 24 hours of drive time ahead of us, and I was pumped.
Day one went really really well! We made it to the far side of Atlanta and stopped for the night. The only eventful thing was that the bathroom in the hotel had some creepy flashing light that made my poor little over-tired Judah have a straight-up panic attack the moment we walked into the room at 10:30pm. Oh! And my drivers' side door wouldn't lock in my VERY full car... but we didn't get robbed so that's easy enough to forget about. We all fell asleep quickly and woke up bright and shining at 7:30 to get back on the road.
Day two was a much more eventful day. But one particular moment stands out in my mind as significant enough to share. We were just outside of Mobile Alabama when we stopped at a rest stop to run around, eat some lunch, and let's face it... potty. By some work of fate we pulled in to the rest stop approximately 1 minute after a caravan of families AND a tour bus full of sad travelers. Also, defying the statistical odds of the male to female ratio, at least 99% of the people there were women... and they all needed to pee... and they all got in line before me and my TWO, count 'em again, TWO toddlers who needed to go. Oh man. This is not good. I considered pulling rest-stop-rank on all those fools and demanding to be escorted to the front of the line AND the big handicap stall, but I decided to rely on the Lord for patience and bladder control. This was a bad move. Judah was antsy and was running up and down the line of women, Andrew was speaking at an above average volume about how he's never going to see his daddy again (Andrew's interpretation of the events, not the truth). And I was regretting having had that second cup of coffee.
After 15 minutes (no joke) of waiting in line, we finally have our turn at an overused TINY stall in this fine government maintained paradise. Me and the boys cram into this itty bitty metal cage and proceed to determine who has the most need. Andrew won, and straddled the stainless steel bowl first and successfully. Next, I turned (generous term for the maneuver I managed) to Judah and started to free him from his drawers. I was in such a hurry that I didn't pay much attention and in a moment i see, between my dearests finger and thumb, a turd. I say, loudly, "Judah!!! Who's poop is that?" He said, "Mommy! We don't talk about poop! That's not polite!" I ignore his suggestion and again insist on knowing where he found the poop. Around this time I start noticing the snickers coming from the surrounding stalls, the waiting females, and surely everyone in the lobby outside. No strangers offered their services, if you can believe it ;). Very quickly I realize, with just the slightest bit of relief, that at least the poo is his. The problem with that is that I have no wipes, no change of clothes, and am still, let me remind you, in a 4X2 metal stall with a dirty toilet and two kids. So I get in business mode: strip Judah down, get him on the toilet, run out to the paper towels, get them wet, get back, clean him up. I'm already about as humiliated as is possible, so I throw Judah's undies and shorts in the trash on my way out and I let Judah walk bare-arsed and wang to the world back to the car. All the while Andrew is seriously concerned, saying "Mommy! What about his pants? We can't leave his pants!" Oh yes we can, my darling, yes we can.
Be assured, both boys wore pull-ups for the rest of the drive.
