Daddy, I've got to go!

Among the many laws of nature that cannot be violated is one that states that when traveling in a car with a kid under twelve, you will have to stop for a potty break.  The only real question for the parent is where this event will take place.  The kid tells you when.

One February day, on the way to my parent's house, I heard that familiar cry from the backseat, "Mommy, Potty!"  Immediately, I went into search mode.  Where was a toilet?  Fortunately, we were within 5 miles of the next town, and it would only be a matter of selecting which convenience store to visit.  We settled on a Jet fuel station, the one with a happy looking jet on the billboard.

As with most of these places, the men's room was absolutely disgusting.  I tried not to look at the wet stuff on the floor around the toilet, the dirt on the sink, or the slime on the walls.  With my precious innocent little tike walking into this bastion of filth, I could think of only one thing, to scream at him, "Don't touch anything!  Just let's get this over with.  Stand still and lean over the side of the potty, but don't, don't touch anything."  My disgust with the place and the indifference my boy showed toward my directions heightened my sense of urgency to leave as quickly as possible.  Can you imagine me telling him, "Hurry up, hurry up, let's go."?

I turned on the faucet, washed his hands, and turned for a paper towel.  Of course not, there wouldn't be any paper towels to dry our hands.  That must be what pants are for.  We turned to go.  The door had one of those elongated handles that looked like a sideways bar instead of a regular doorknob.  I took my little finger and crooked it over the bar and pulled down.

The doorknob, or handle, came loose and few over my shoulder and landed with a loud clang in the toilet.  I'm thinking, oh my, who heard us, how do I get out, am I going to have to beat on the door and hope the cashier will open the door, how embarrassing.  No way was I going to have someone rescue me and see that I'd slung the door handle in the pot.  No way was I going to fish that thing out of the toilet.  So, I took a piece of toilet paper and held tightly to the threaded extension from the doorknob and twisted with all my might, ignoring how the threads dug into my fingers.  Woo hoo!  The door opened.

I rushed my boy out while ignoring his question, "What happened, Daddy?"  "Never mind," I said, "Just go to the car. Let's get out of here."

Once I was in our car, safe from the possibility of having to explain to someone how I threw their door handle in the toilet, I got the last laugh.  Imagine that next guy.  He's got to go.  He goes into the men's room, the door closes behind him, and at just about the time he's ready to take aim, "Whoa!  What's that?"  Reality sinks in when he figures out what is at the bottom of the toilet.