This is a little peek into what’s happening, daily, in my glamorous mommy world. [Aaron – turn away- You can’t handle the truth!]
Here’s the thing. Poop duty is mine. My son is half potty trained. He successfully goes pee on his own. The other half? Not so much. And it isn’t the actual cleaning that bothers me. It’s the smells. My son and I are polar opposites. I can smell something ten miles away. My son has no reaction to any foul smell. Did the dog poop on the carpet? No reaction as he stands directly above it. Going by the dumpster for the worst restaurant in town in 100 degree heat? My son might want to stop there and ponder his existence for a while, completely oblivious to the smell.
At the office, when the need arises, my son demands to go into the men’s room. So, I must traipse in there with him. Usually, one of the guys in the office has stunk it up right before I have to go in.
While we are in there, and I am cleaning the toxic 4 year old butt, his sense of balance is, shall we say, less than stellar? He grabs me to steady himself when I strip the offending garments from his body, in the manner least likely to compound my problems. He does not hold onto my shoulder. He likes to put his weight on my head with his hands. My hair is tussled so much that I look like I have just teased it through an electrical socket. Sometimes, for added pleasure, he’s stuck his hands in his pants before I get to him so – there you have it.
Other times, we are out in public and he suddenly decides that he needs to take a dump. These are the great moments where he actually makes it to a toilet. The dreaded words are, “Does your tummy hurt?” Usually, this takes place when we are in the car between places or nowhere near a human population. Last time, I was closest to Toys R Us.
I don’t know what you think, but the worst, most foul smelling women’s restroom I’ve been in is the Toys R Us women’s room. Not that I’m a connoisseur of public restrooms, but I do know this one. This one has the stench of never having been cleaned since the building was built. There is the smell of dirty, rotting diapers because no one dumped the garbage since last week. To “disguise” it all, they spray a hideous sweet scent that simply makes the whole thing smell like musky death. I usually dry heave a bit as soon as I go in.
On top of that dark embedded dirt look, the tile which could have been white at one time, is now a distinct dirty gray. On the floor, there is pee, along with other assorted fluids. To mix it up a bit, the patrons of the fine restroom, leave the brown paper towels they use on the floor all around the actual trash can. The trash can could not be a hole where you simply dump the item. It is one of those old fashioned white metal cans with the swinging closure that never works right. Brown paper is hanging out of that can which no one wants to touch for fear of cooties. To help matters, you can only wash off the grossness with water, as the soap dispensers are almost always empty.
There are three stalls. Two regular and one handicapped. I try to avoid the handicapped for obvious reasons but at this particular Toys R Us the stalls are not made for humans. They are made for Barbie. Just trying to get into one of these stalls without touching something offensive and keeping your child from touching something offensive is impossible. I can squeeze us both in there but it’s very tight. So, when it’s available, we head for the handicapped. Usually someone else has beat us to it.
I’m always hauling my ten pound purse and I, foolishly, think the stall door will have a hook to hold it or one of those metal trays will come down so I can set it on there. No hook. No metal door. Okay. So now, I need to keep the 10 pound back attached to my shoulder but it wants to slide off. The slide wins, and as I get the kid’s pants down for his deposit, my purse falls to the floor to absorb some unknown fluid gunk there.
I can’t really tell what is on the floor because, inevitably, at least two out of three light bulbs are out. The dank, dim lighting is likely for the very purpose of blinding customers to what is on the floor.
I, long ago, gave up on the tissue toilet seat covers because the little guy thinks they are toilet toys. They make him touch the toilet seat even more. It’s bad enough that he thinks the flushers are fun.
He finally has his butt in place for his project to commence and he is scripting because, well, who wouldn’t in this tiny, claustrophobic, dark, stinky place? On top of that, on almost all occasions we are in any public restroom and someone is nearby, he will want to stick his head down under the stall to see who is next to us. I have to scoop him back to an upright position and tell him this is not appropriate behavior.
Hooray for the grand finish! If we find toilet paper (questionable at best) and get that part accomplished, we then wash our hands. In water. No soap. This is followed by the paper towel dispenser dance in which my son pushes the button for the 1/4 inch of brown paper that is dispensed from one push, dances around it, looks up the slit where the paper comes out and asks what it is 15 times. I answer “paper towel dispenser”, ten times and then ignore the rest.
Clearly, 1/4 inch is never enough paper to dry one’s hands, so he must punch the button, several times more. Due to a lack of coordination, he always dispenses about 4 feet of brown paper with which to dry his hands, part of which touches the garbage which is directly under the dispenser. So much for paper conservation.
I help him pull off the paper while he tries again to dispense more. When he is told no, he yells “no” back at me, loudly. I give him “the look”. Clearly reading this nonverbal cue, he begins a five minute repetition of “I’m sorry mommy!” so others can, naturally, believe I am regularly beating him to elicit such a response.
I tell him to dry his hands. He basically makes brief contact with the brown paper, tosses it and runs for the door. He then flicks the door handle with his still wet hands, 10 times before me, my tussled hair, and my contaminated purse catch up with a “knock it off”!
Yes, be jealous all of you out there! My life is just that glamorous. Every day.