Potty dances

Once you become a Mom with kids who can walk, even in a roly-poly, Weebles-wobble-but-they-don't-fall down kind of way, it becomes a matter of self-preservation to avoid public restrooms at all costs. I've known this for a VERY long time as my kids mastered the art of single-handedly describing my underwear-down anatomy in extremely loud voices while simultaneously performing a pretzel-worthy stretching act under the partition to smile and wave "hi" to the poor throne dweller who parked next to us. All this talent perfected by each of my boys before they hit about three.

So, not surprisingly, I am a big fan of any store, restaurant, or parent who installs a "potty-chair"* in their throne room. I've been known to holler "YES" when stumblin' upon one of these little beauties**. This miracle invention allows you to strap sweet cheeks into a fold-out chair about 3 feet above ground level. It's an introduction to the virtues of Six Flags for the toddler set*** that allows you just under three-minutes to finish your duty before your little angel realizes "HEY! This isn't the Texas Giant. Get me out of this thing!"

Now, last week, I entered a restroom where there wasn't a potty-chair to be had. It didn't matter a bit to me because, in a rare stroke of luck, I had managed to arrive early and, having not picked up the babe yet, I was SANS KIDS! But, I wasn't the only Mom in the restroom. No, in fact, I was within five feet of a woman who forgot the cardinal rules of Mothering:

Rule #1: always use the restroom BEFORE you leave the house and don't drink a drop of ANYTHING before you arrive back home****.

Rule #2: if you violated rule #1, do not rush to your child's side but to the nearest water closet! Even if you have to pay $1/minute for being late.

But back to our bathroom: Mom and her threeish-sounding son managed to nab the coveted handicap stall. Stall number two was occupied by an unknown, very quiet, person. Now, my bladder was FULL. And no one in either stall seemed to be moving beyond a snail's pace. So, I crossed my legs and waited.

What came next was nothing short of blog fodder. The threeish son started to perform for his Mom. It went something like this:

Son: "Do you want to see the potty dance?"

Mom: (in the same small, sweet voice all Moms have for approximately two minutes after picking up children they haven't seen for a couple of hours) "Sure."

Son: "Potty dance, potty dance, poo-poo, pee-pee." (Shuffling sound from stall. No rhythm or rhyme to the lyrics.)

Mom: (trying to sound interested, yet slightly worried that this has no where to go but down) "Well, that is an interesting song."

Son: "Potty. Poo. Pee." (More shuffling. Lyrics annoyingly repetitive.)

Then it happened. Mom did the unthinkable, yet natural, thing that accompanies sitting on a toilet. She passed gas.

Son: "OOOOHHHH. Farty song. Do you want to hear my farty song?" (So very excited. Practically auditioning for Tap Dogs inside stall.)

(ME? My legs are squeezed together so tightly I think they might break. WHY, you ask? Because I'm engaged in one of those noiseless, internal, body-shaking fits of laughter that I'm afraid is going to cause me to pee instantly, on the floor, rendering useless my time waiting for the sluggard to vacate stall number two.)

Mom: "That's not very appropriate, Evan. Let's not talk about that." (Pulse-racing, wondering if anybody else is in bathroom.******)

Evan (who now has a name!): "My potty, farty song. (muffled sound). (More muffled sound). (SCREAMING, muffled sound) WHY ARE YOU COVERING MY MOUTH, MOMMY?"

Sound of toilet flushing. Stall number two opens and mystery person turns out to be bigger brother of flautulant Mother and dancing brother. Totally unaffected by events from the family line, he exits stall and dutifully begins washing hands. Toilet in handicap stall announces itself with loud flushing.

By this time, I have bonded with Evan. He is so much a Nowell that I could adopt him on the spot. He'd fit right in with my brood and I HAVE TO, down to the marrow of my bones, see his face to be sure he wasn't born of me in some wierd "when did that alien abduct and impregnate me" kind of way. So, I hold my ground and appear busy by rifling through my purse, aimlessly.

When Mom and Evan exit the stall, I catch a glance of a flat out adorable little guy. He's bouncy and happy, with wavy brown hair and big eyes. Cute, but no Nowell/alien lineage to be had. His Mom, no doubt mortified that someone else WAS in the loo, acts like I'm a wall tile and whisks him right by me, using her Mommy kung-fu grip******.

By the time they leave the bathroom, Mom has managed to lose the sweet, small voice, in favor of her usual brand of talk, which is somewhere between Army seargant and Hitler. She has also endeared herself to me because I see myself in her: She's simultaneously embarassed and frazzled, yet can't wait to have five minutes alone with her husband to recount the "bathroom story" and laugh about how cute Evan is and how responsible his older brother is becoming. ME? I'm just happy to have made it to the open stall.

And, fair prince Evan of my (potentially) favorite bathroom story: You made my day. Rock on!




*Does this thing have a technical name?

**And you can be darn sure I'll be back to THAT place when I'm toting kids and have to wee. Even if it means a twenty-minute trip out of my way to get there.

***If you play your cards right, that is. You MUST get all happy-clappy and silly so your kid thinks this is FUN, and not recognize they are really strapped into a carseat hanging off the wall.

****This is the only iron-clad way to avoid PRE, commonly known in psychology circles as "public restroom embarrasment".

*****So sorry, yes, there is somebody else here. And, sadly, your moment of shame is about to be blog material. But, carry on.

******His arm was practically blue, I tell you! But, I completely understood her dilema: kung-fu grip or spanking? HMMMM.