My husband could share his own tales - standing at the urinal next to another man and one very exuberant three-year-old shouts out, "Oh, look, Daddy, is that his pee pee?" Then, when that unsuspecting stranger is finished, our son adds, "Oh, good job, man!" In such a situation your only thought could possibly be, "I need to curl up in the corner and die." But then you remember you are in a public restroom, and the thought of curling up on the floor is enough to make you want to die. So, you proudly stand up straight and ignore your child and pray the other person does the same.
Or he could share the times when one very sweet two-year-old says, "No, Daddy, go poopy in this one," as he is trying to turn around [bare butted] and sit on the urinal. In this case, you just move like lightning to get his back end aimed toward an actual potty.
But then there was today. Today was my story.
To tell you this story, you need to know another story:
It might be possible that a certain exuberant three-year-old likes to refer to air coming out of his back end as a "burp." It might also be possible that a certain three-year-old's father responds to this by saying, "Yeah, maybe a burp out your butt." It might also be possible that a certain mother disapproves of this. I can't imagine why. Well, until today.
So, this certain mother with a sleeping seven-month-old babe slinged onto her chest walks into the women's restroom with a certain three-year-old and a certain two-year-old.
First comes the dance I refer to as the choose-a-potty-shuffle. "I want to pee pee in this one...oh, no...this one...no, I pee pee in the little one [meaning a urinal], Mommy?" "No little ones in this bathroom, Honey." Now, imagine they are both doing this while going in and out of stalls like some old comedy show where the people keep appearing in different doors. And you might even get a random, "Oh, not this one, Mommy. Yucky. Is that poopy? Oh, look, Mommy, it IS poopy!"
Meanwhile, my internal crazy woman is counting just how many surfaces they are touching. "Ugh, oh, NO. Three. Oh. No. Four. Five. Ahh! PLEASE STOP TOUCHING THINGS!!!!"
So, we settle on a potty. Momma squats down to unbutton a certain three-year-old's pants [baby still attached so this is a strategic make-your-thighs-burn squat]. Three-year-old willingly hops up on the potty while touching as much of the toilet seat as humanly possible.
Internal monologue: Well, son, could you touch that anymore?
Now, the inevitable...
In walks a poor woman who has no idea what is to come. If she had known, she would have walked away. However, it was clear this trip to the restroom was of the deepest necessity to this poor woman. She hurried to a stall, and feeling the intensity in the room deepen, I try with all my might to hurry up the pottying of these two boys.
But, no. It was too late.
A rather loud and aggressive explosive like sound came from the other stall. My heart sank.
"PLEASE....just. do. not. say. anything."
Certain sweet two-year-old: Whoa! Mommy, a burp! A BIG burp!
Me: [Dying]
Certain exuberant three-year-old: Yeah, maybe a BURP OUT HER BUTT! [with the most perfect amount of sarcasm in his voice, almost exactly like that of his father]
Me: [About to go curl up in the corner and I don't even care this is a public restroom.]
Both boys: [Uncontrollable laughter.]
Sound from the other stall: Silence. Dead silence. Until...another explosion.
Internal Monologue: Oh, good gravy, get me outta here.
Now, just repeat the above conversation.
Except this time, please add the sounds of a crazy mother zipping pants and wrestling kids out of the bathroom. Just. get. out.
But of course we had to wash our hands. We practically needed an entire bath.
And washing the hands of a certain exuberant three-year-old and a certain sweet two-year-old is no easy or quick task...
