Anonymous A, age 10
Anonymous B, age 10
Anonymous C, age 7
After a lovely overnight
trip to my parents’ house in Milwaukee , I am
heading back to Madison
“I have to go to the
bathroom,” announces Anonymous A.
“You have to go to the
bathroom?” I respond, already wishing we weren’t having this conversation.
“Yes, I have to go to the
bathroom.”
“Why didn’t you go to the
bathroom before we left Grammie and Daddo’s house?” I ask. I am trying my very best
to not whine.
“Because I didn’t have to go to the bathroom before we left Grammie and Daddo’s house,” Anonymous A retorts.
“OK, fine. So you have to
go to the bathroom. The problem is that we aren’t close to an exit right now,
so there is nowhere for you to go to the bathroom,” I explain. I am trying to
be soothing and rational. I am trying to be a good mom.
“But I REALLY have to go
to the bathroom,” Anonymous A says. I’m dismayed to detect an undercurrent of
panic in Anonymous A’s voice.
Anonymous C decides to
join in the discussion. “When I have
to go to the bathroom in the car, Daddy gives me a Gatorade bottle and lets me pee
in it.” My face must look stricken in the rearview mirror, because Anonymous C quickly
adds, “But that’s only when I have to go really
bad.”
Apparently this is
becoming a family affair, because Anonymous B speaks up. “Well, if [Anonymous A]
has to go really bad, we could use your empty Starbucks cup.”
“That’s enough,” I say. I need to put an end to
this nonsense. “There’s an exit in a few miles. We’ll get off and find a
bathroom as quickly as we can, all right? No one is using an empty Starbucks
cup!”
But Anonymous A is not placated.
“I’m trying, Mom, but I can’t hold it,” she bleats. Swiveling my head, I can
tell from the droplets of sweat forming on Anonymous A’s nose that she is
serious. Our situation goes from bad to worse when Anonymous A breaks out in
tears.
“FINE,” I screech. “Here
is my Starbucks cup!” I whip off the plastic cap and straw and pass back the cup,
remembering how just an hour ago I was cheerfully sipping iced coffee from it. “Shimmy
yourself off your seat – please keep on your seatbelt – and do your best to pee
in it. Be careful! Be fast!”
I cannot believe this is
happening. Who does this?
I consider pulling over but decide it’s safer to keep driving. I focus on the road in order to avoid dwelling on what is occurring behind me. But things become increasingly impossible to ignore, because suddenly Anonymous B starts gagging.
“[Anonymous B], are you gagging?” I ask.
Anonymous B can’t respond
because she is, in fact, gagging. So Anonymous C clarifies, “I think [Anonymous
B] is going to puke.”
“Why is [Anonymous B]
going to puke?!” I wail. But it has gone silent in the nether-regions of my
car. As if to answer my question, Anonymous A taps me on the shoulder and,
sounding sheepish, says that she has finished. I reach back to cautiously take
hold of her cup of pee. Except the cup is alarmingly heavy. Too heavy. With a glance, I ascertain
that it is not filled with pee. It is filled with poop.
“Oh. My. God,” is all I
can sputter out. I manage to set the cup in my cup holder and frantically cover
it with a protective multi-layer cushion of Kleenex. Then I grab my bottle of
hand sanitizer and coat myself. “Hand sanitizer all around!” I shriek, pitching
it into the backseat.
I take a deep breath and
count to ten, trying not to look at the Starbucks cup sitting next to me. I
want to get a better handle on this situation.
“[Anonymous A],” I say. “I
don’t understand what just happened. I thought you had to pee.” But now that I think about it, I don’t recall her actually
saying those words. Perhaps I imagined them. Or perhaps the possibility of a
ten-year-old going poop in the backseat of my car did not occur to me.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” says
Anonymous A. “I tried to hold it, but I couldn’t.” She sounds contrite,
so I’m somewhat appeased.
Meanwhile, Anonymous B is
still making retching noises, so I open the windows to air out the car. (In all
honesty, my Starbucks cup doesn’t smell that bad. I’m thinking it must be more
of a mental thing for Anonymous B.)
Anonymous C is relishing
every bit of this. He asks me to hold up the cup so he can get a better look at
it. I shut down Anonymous C with a glare and explain that we are no longer
speaking of the Starbucks cup or its contents. We are done. Anonymous A is safe in her seat and that’s all I care about.
As we drive home, I spend
a good chunk of time wondering why things seem to devolve so abruptly into
chaos for me and my family. Why do we suffer from these disconnects? Take
today, for instance. There was an evident breakdown between Anonymous A and what
she was saying (or rather, not
saying) to me and what I was hearing (or rather, not hearing). In general I’m a pretty good listener, but things
still managed to get all muddled. I don’t know if it’s worth replaying the
gory details in my mind, or if I should let go of the matter. I suppose every
family must have its share of disconnects, but are they as disquieting as this
one?
Bigger picture, I see that
a disconnect also exists between what I thought motherhood was going to be like
and what it’s actually shaking down to be. Before I had children, I imagined that
I would be a graceful, unruffled mother, someone equipped to prevent unsavory
things from happening – someone who could get her kids to the bathroom in time.
I expected that I would be able to rise above the messiness of the world,
making my kids’ lives extraordinary and serene. I thought I could keep their childhoods unsullied.
