My mother jokes about how whenever she Skypes with me and my children that it's like watching a reality show. Well, 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 one Friday for our move from Raleigh NC to San Antonio TX; we spent the morning and early afternoon Saturday doing car maintenance (or watched my helpful neighbors do it for me), then we left Raleigh at 1pm with our Honday 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 7:30am 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 a rest stop approximately 1 minute after a caravan of road-trippers AND a tour bus full of sad travelers. Also, defying the statistical odds of the earth's 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. I thought to myself, "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 was 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 (at least) of waiting in line, we finally had 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 flash I see, between my dearest's finger and thumb, a turd. I say, loudly, "Judah!!! Whose poop is that? WHOSE 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. "Where did you find that poop? Whose poop is that?" 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 was 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 boy-bits exposed 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.
Motherhood, you do what you have to do!
About the Author
My name is Jessica Weir. I have been raised by love, challenged by love, broken by love, and saved by love. I got married for the first time when I was 19 and had two beautiful boys. I got divorced when I was 26 and I lost love, but love never lost me. I go through life headfirst with a personality I often wish was muted, but my new husband of 4 months celebrates and encourages me. I've struggled with mental illness, found immense professional success, laughed hard enough to make my lungs burn, cried torrential tears, and formed friendships I would die for. But, hey, this is life, and I'm truly so honored to get to live it! Oh, and I believe love has a name and his name is Jesus.