If the visitor's bureau ever decides to add this to the list of tourist activities, I would be a highly qualified candidate for tour guide. I know bathrooms, not only in the city I live, but in cities all across the state and most of the Midwest. I was not always such a bathroom connoisseur, but my oldest child has helped me to hone this skill.
He never has to go before we leave home, or even as soon as we enter the store. Those moments of desperate urgency hit right about the time I have just gone through the frozen section of the supermarket, and now have a cart full of rapidly melting peas.
When it was just us two, a quick trip to the bathroom was easy, but add a second child, and you have chaos. I cannot, of course, take a shopping cart full of merchandise into the restroom, so I must now engage in that critical thinking and problem solving my high school Algebra teacher warned me I would need some day. Here are my options:
1) Unbuckle the baby and take her into the restroom with us, while I pray that some overzealous store clerk doesn't confiscate my cart.
2) Allow my son to enter the restroom alone. Not gonna happen. I watch Law and Order.
3) Pull the cart as close to the entrance to the bathroom as possible while balancing on one foot, and holding the door open with the other. Continue to maintain eye contact with stall door, and ask son every 30 seconds if he is finished yet. (Occasionally, another restroom patron will answer.)
I can tell you this from my experience. Bed, Bath, and Beyond tops my list, due to a pleasant floral scent that must come from somewhere in the Beyond section. Department store restrooms are hit and miss, while Wal-mart makes me cringe and pray that he only has to pee. Otherwise, I will be holding him two inches above the toilet, trying not to think about what incurable diseases might lurk on the seat below.
At the very bottom are the gas station restrooms that require one to ask for a key before entering. If you have to lock up your restroom, that is never a good sign, and in my experience, most of these have not been cleaned since some time during the Reagan administration. I also do not relish answering questions about the condom machines hanging half-hazardly from the wall. Someday he's going to get wise to me and realize there really isn't a market for balloons in gas station bathrooms.
We went to Sea World this summer, which offers dolphins, sharks, stingrays, and dancing sea lions. My husband carefully mapped out our day, noting all of the attractions we didn't want to miss. I looked over his shoulder and silently wondered what scent the liquid soap was and whether they had paper towels or hand dryers. How long do you think we can keep the baby in diapers?
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
The Bridge
I've loved Shel Silverstein since I was an elementary school student putting my name on a weeks-long waiting list to check out "Where the Sidewalk Ends" from the school library. Now that I'm a parent (and former teacher of English), I have a profound appreciation for what a truly wise man Silverstein was.
My four-year-old started a new preschool today, his last year of preschool before he ventures into the jungle that is kindergarten next year. He carefully chose his Avengers t-shirt last night and laid it out like a soldier preparing his suit of armor before battle. I, of course, took pictures for the photo album, and then loaded everyone into the car. When we arrived at preschool, I barely got a hug before he was swallowed up by the crowd of 4 and 5-year-olds intent on chasing the terrified classroom bunny. He didn't even look back when I frantically waved and shouted good-bye. Forget teenage angst. True rejection comes in parenthood.
The baby also went to daycare for the first time today. We were lucky to have my parents and mother-in-law keep her last school year. I will be the first to admit that I can be outright neurotic when it comes to my children. I believe in professionally installed car seats, life vests, and never running with sharp objects. So first days of daycare are more than a little traumatic, mostly for me, not the children. I stayed for about an hour to reassure myself that this lovely house filled with children and toys was not, in fact, a cover for a ring of sex slave traders.
While I was there, one of the older boys swung his foot out and kicked my daughter square in the cheekbone. When I was able to resume breathing again, my first thought was to take this kid out. I soon came to my senses, as I would have felt pretty silly tackling a two-year-old to the ground. I turned my attention to my daughter, who by this time, had stuck her lower lip out so far a singing frog could have tap-danced there. Next came the wailing and outstretched arms, so I picked her up and cuddled her until the lip was safely back in place. Finally, I had to leave or risk looking like the hovering nutcase that I already freely admit that I am. K shed not a tear, but I arrived at my 10:00 appointment looking like a raccoon.
So what does this have to do with Silverstein? In his poem "The Bridge," he wrote:
The sad irony of parenting is that, if I do it right, someday (in the very far, far distant future) my kids won't need me (reaching for my Kleenex) anymore. I get to walk with them for a while, show them all the beauty and wonder the world has to offer, and then eventually, I will have to let them go and allow them to cross the bridge on their own. I feel so privileged to have this time with them while they are young. All hope is not lost though, because while I was blubbering after daycare drop-off this morning, I picked up the phone and called my mommy.
My four-year-old started a new preschool today, his last year of preschool before he ventures into the jungle that is kindergarten next year. He carefully chose his Avengers t-shirt last night and laid it out like a soldier preparing his suit of armor before battle. I, of course, took pictures for the photo album, and then loaded everyone into the car. When we arrived at preschool, I barely got a hug before he was swallowed up by the crowd of 4 and 5-year-olds intent on chasing the terrified classroom bunny. He didn't even look back when I frantically waved and shouted good-bye. Forget teenage angst. True rejection comes in parenthood.
The baby also went to daycare for the first time today. We were lucky to have my parents and mother-in-law keep her last school year. I will be the first to admit that I can be outright neurotic when it comes to my children. I believe in professionally installed car seats, life vests, and never running with sharp objects. So first days of daycare are more than a little traumatic, mostly for me, not the children. I stayed for about an hour to reassure myself that this lovely house filled with children and toys was not, in fact, a cover for a ring of sex slave traders.
While I was there, one of the older boys swung his foot out and kicked my daughter square in the cheekbone. When I was able to resume breathing again, my first thought was to take this kid out. I soon came to my senses, as I would have felt pretty silly tackling a two-year-old to the ground. I turned my attention to my daughter, who by this time, had stuck her lower lip out so far a singing frog could have tap-danced there. Next came the wailing and outstretched arms, so I picked her up and cuddled her until the lip was safely back in place. Finally, I had to leave or risk looking like the hovering nutcase that I already freely admit that I am. K shed not a tear, but I arrived at my 10:00 appointment looking like a raccoon.
So what does this have to do with Silverstein? In his poem "The Bridge," he wrote:
“This bridge will only take you halfway there, to those mysterious lands you long to see. Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fair, and moonlit woods where unicorns run free. So come and walk awhile with me and share the twisting trails and wonderous worlds I've known. But this bridge will only take you halfway there. The last few steps you have to take alone.”
The sad irony of parenting is that, if I do it right, someday (in the very far, far distant future) my kids won't need me (reaching for my Kleenex) anymore. I get to walk with them for a while, show them all the beauty and wonder the world has to offer, and then eventually, I will have to let them go and allow them to cross the bridge on their own. I feel so privileged to have this time with them while they are young. All hope is not lost though, because while I was blubbering after daycare drop-off this morning, I picked up the phone and called my mommy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)