Restroom #486

There are moments I look around me and wonder how did I get here. I'm being very literal. Today I looked around the back working innards of a butcher's shop and wondered, "How did I get here?" The answer was found in my little blonde and not quite 4-year-old daughter who had to pee. I find this to be a typical situation for me. Some people have children who will only use bathrooms which they have investigated thoroughly and have been approved by the local health department. Even then, they may hesitate if this bathroom is not actually located in their home. My children, on the other hand, view every new bathroom as a life-fulfilling adventure; in moments like these I loathe their strong sense of independence.

A couple of years ago I boarded a plane bound for Alaska with a 18-month old lap child in diapers (really, they may as well just give her my seat), a 4 1/2 year old who was potty trained and a 6 1/2 year old who was well versed in all things bathroom. I made sure that we went to the bathroom before loading the plane. However, Quinn's eyes lit up the moment he realized there was a toilet on the plane. "Really?" Taking a child to the bathroom in an airplane lavatory is exceeded in difficulty only by trying to change a diaper in said lavatory; I speak from experience on both matters.

Net result, I have been to airplane bathrooms with small children. I have been into women's bathrooms, family bathrooms and yes, on occasion, men's bathrooms (the joys of having sons). I have been in more port-a-potties than I can count. (The port-a-potties made for the handicapped are nice and roomy but I wouldn't recommend the port-a-potties located at ball fields during the last game of the season; the sights and smells continue to haunt my nightmares.) We are intimately acquainted with every bathroom in countless friends' homes, our in-laws', two local elementary schools, our favorite park, our local library, our church, our stake center in Eugene, our local...no, two...three...FOUR grocery stores and Walmart. We have passing reference to the bathrooms in a few area churches, every rest stop between here and Hwy 18 in Tacoma, Washington (no hyperbole used here), the South Lane Rural Fire Department as well as every inch of local roadway and the vast wooded areas of Western Oregon (okay, slight hyperbole on that last bit).

Today, I add Custom Meats to that list. I had never before seen a real hanging side of beef. Check that one off my list. I turned the door handle to open the bathroom door and came away with a booger sized piece of raw meat. *Sigh* "Do you really have to pee?" "I can't hold it." The toilet was clean, the soap dispenser filled and paper supplied. (I suppose I should be grateful to the know that the sanitary facilities in a meat packing place are so well maintained as there will be no traces of urine in my ground round.) I will also always be grateful that there seems to be no end to the number of strangers who will allow someone to use their restroom facilities when they see this person accompanied by a small person dancing and clutching her crotch in front of them.

But this topic is far too narrow because right behind the "How did I get here" question is the "What am I doing here" question. Again, this is completely literal. There are moments when I look at myself in these assorted bathrooms and, as if having an out of body experience, wonder who that weirdo over there is and what the heck is she doing?! I have made "hand puppet" shows over the tops of bathroom stall doors, encouraging my little proteges to pee. I have, of necessity, used the bathroom while my children were present at some point in each of their lives. I have sung songs to them. I have said things like, "You really don't need to get naked to poop," and "Please don't touch that" with a touch of hysteria in my voice. I have reminded to wipe, to flush and to wash hands. I have cautioned against "sword fighting" with streams of pee. I have asked boys to aim better and ensure that all the urine ends up in the toilet. I have placed Cheerios in the toilet for floating targets; a peanut M&M as proof that the dolly went poop, why don't you? I have told stories about poop wanting to go down the water slide and how much fun this was for their poop. I have disinfected children after they finished exploring port-a-potties.

Ultimately, "How did I get here?" and "What am I doing here?" can both be answered quite deftly with the living fact of children and all their idiosyncrasies and, of course, the glue that holds the universe together: poop and pee. And my strong desire to have to touch as little of that glue as possible.