I'm a reasonable person with a fair grasp on reality. I'm not so far out in left field, am I?
I mean, am I afraid of ghosts? Nope. Werewolves or vampires? Nuh-uh. The basement? Kinda. The impending zombie apocalypse? ((yawn!)) Not even.
But they're everywhere, people. They carry filth and disease, crazy asylum escapees, and flagrant disregard of elementary privacy laws. They. Will. Kill. You!
I'll illustrate. When we were in the checkout line at Costco last Saturday, my four-year-old came to me and whispered, "I need to go potty." I could hear the "Twilight Zone" theme song increasing in volume as the weight of this request sunk into my soul.
I took a deep breath, quickly considered my other options, and resigned myself to my fate. After handing the baby off to my oldest, I held Daughter's hands and tried to bury my fear in a skip and a smile. And even though I had given in to the inevitable (a shower would be absolutely necessary tonight), I still began to review my basic Minimizing Germs from Public Restroom Exposure protocol.
Sure you can do your best to avoid the lethal pitfalls, but there's no real escaping the surprise attacks, the explosive dangers, and the gut-wrenching stench of a slow, disgusting death. And when you have to take a toddler potty in a public facility, it's game over on sanitation and health.
As we came to the brick aisle that wound its way back to the "Women's", I hurriedly rolled up our long sleeve shirts to cut back on contamination. Then in a crisp, harsh whisper, I warned, "Do not touch anything in here. Do you understand?" My bulged eyeballs, tight grip, and panicked wheezing all cued her in that I meant business, and she solemnly pledged her strict obedience with a measured nod and wide eyes. If I was transforming into a werewolf at that moment, she wouldn't have looked more alarmed. (And now that I think of it, there were probably some striking similarities.)
It's a good thing I'm naturally limber and do yoga occasionally, otherwise I would have met my death just stepping into the stall. Because all I can think about is the violent spray of the toilet and how many germs get aerosolized per flush, and how much they've multiplied in that confined spaced since it was last cleaned. And how now, they are feasting eagerly on my hair and face, creeping over my skin, and trying to get inside of me and kill me off.
In an act of death-defying grace and agility, I pick up Daughter, rest her on my left hip, push the stall door open with my right foot, scan the toilet for moisture and the floor for soggy paper, and racing the closing hinge on the door, I bend to the right to avoid banging her on the wall. I take a step in, switch her to the front of me, my arms out in front to suspend her over the toilet, do a backbend to avoid the toilet paper holder, the ceramic toilet, and the back of the closing stall door. Before the door bounces back open, and in one swift movement, I stand her in the middle of the small space, grab a dangling piece of toilet paper, and use it to catch the door handle and lock us into our grave.
Next, I grab a toilet seat "cover"; you know--those flimsy paperish things that aren't shaped like any toilet on earth? I have to completely remove the middle when taking a toddler potty or we get more of a puddle on top of the paper. (I learned that by sad experience.) I carefully situate it, taking care to cover as much as I can. Obviously, one doesn't cut it, so I grab another cover, punch out the middle, and stagger its coverage with the other cover to make the toilet "safe". (There's no such thing in a public restroom.) All the while, I'm throwing frenzied glances back to my toddler to make sure she hasn't leaned against the filthy doors or walls, covered in aerosolized toilet germs.
She was perfectly obedient, but my glance back at her proved to be my fatal error. The slight movement set off the toilet's automatic sensor, and now, with a deafening growl and a gurgling whoosh, the flushing water sucks my carefully arranged toilet covers down its monstrous throat and leaves a belch full of moisture in its wake.
Don't worry, though. At the start of the flush, I knew what was coming, because you never forget what it sounds like to be roared at by a demon beast. My adrenalin took over, and with lighting speed I took a deep breath, turned my head, and protected my offspring with as much of myself as was possible. If she dies, I'll never forgive myself, I thought.
So now I'm back at the start, but I know now I'll have to conquer the demon toilet with movements so slow and precise as to fool the automatic flush sensor. Good thing I'm part mother, part ninja.
I repeat the seat covering process, but this time all in grande plie, keeping my head in front of the sensor and as motionless and level as possible. Still looking towards the sensor, I twist my torso around, grab my daughter around the waist, bring her up, over, and in front of me, and set her, oh, so gingerly on the mouth of the gaping beast.
She looks scared. We'll never get out of here if she can't relax, I think. So I whisper encouraging words and try to look calm, ignoring my thighs that are ablaze with exhaustion from holding this squat for three whole minutes.
When the deed is done, my adrenalin kicks in again. As soon as I move her, I know the monster will try to drink her down and shower my beloved child with its vile mist. So ever so rapidly and nimbly, I hold my breath, pick her up, pull up her pants mid-air, twist back towards the door, set her down, and almost shout my defiance in answer to the voice of the rushing waters.
But I was not to leave that stall unscarred. Because when I flipped her up and around and down, her beautiful magenta bow fell on the floor.
I did the only thing you can do when you're wounded to this degree.
I cried.
There in the Costco bathroom stall, I cried.
Then my daughter started to cry, thinking it was her fault, which thankfully snapped me back to reality. I picked up the bow with fingers three and four (because they're probably the most clean), stuffed it in my pocket, and reassured Daughter that she did a wonderful job, and I couldn't have asked for a better performance, and I'm not mad at her, just at the janitors.
We washed with the automatic faucets, using plenty of soap and scrubbing till our hands were red. When it came time to dry our hands, I looked in vain for the paper towels. Instead, I found those automatic air tunnels, where you dip your hands inside and they get blasted dry. There is no way I can dry us both off without touching the sides of the tunnel, I thought.
As Daughter started over to them, I pulled her back and told her we were just gonna shake our hands dry, because it's way more fun.
In an act of death-defying grace and agility, I pick up Daughter, rest her on my left hip, push the stall door open with my right foot, scan the toilet for moisture and the floor for soggy paper, and racing the closing hinge on the door, I bend to the right to avoid banging her on the wall. I take a step in, switch her to the front of me, my arms out in front to suspend her over the toilet, do a backbend to avoid the toilet paper holder, the ceramic toilet, and the back of the closing stall door. Before the door bounces back open, and in one swift movement, I stand her in the middle of the small space, grab a dangling piece of toilet paper, and use it to catch the door handle and lock us into our grave.
Next, I grab a toilet seat "cover"; you know--those flimsy paperish things that aren't shaped like any toilet on earth? I have to completely remove the middle when taking a toddler potty or we get more of a puddle on top of the paper. (I learned that by sad experience.) I carefully situate it, taking care to cover as much as I can. Obviously, one doesn't cut it, so I grab another cover, punch out the middle, and stagger its coverage with the other cover to make the toilet "safe". (There's no such thing in a public restroom.) All the while, I'm throwing frenzied glances back to my toddler to make sure she hasn't leaned against the filthy doors or walls, covered in aerosolized toilet germs.
She was perfectly obedient, but my glance back at her proved to be my fatal error. The slight movement set off the toilet's automatic sensor, and now, with a deafening growl and a gurgling whoosh, the flushing water sucks my carefully arranged toilet covers down its monstrous throat and leaves a belch full of moisture in its wake.
Don't worry, though. At the start of the flush, I knew what was coming, because you never forget what it sounds like to be roared at by a demon beast. My adrenalin took over, and with lighting speed I took a deep breath, turned my head, and protected my offspring with as much of myself as was possible. If she dies, I'll never forgive myself, I thought.
So now I'm back at the start, but I know now I'll have to conquer the demon toilet with movements so slow and precise as to fool the automatic flush sensor. Good thing I'm part mother, part ninja.
I repeat the seat covering process, but this time all in grande plie, keeping my head in front of the sensor and as motionless and level as possible. Still looking towards the sensor, I twist my torso around, grab my daughter around the waist, bring her up, over, and in front of me, and set her, oh, so gingerly on the mouth of the gaping beast.
She looks scared. We'll never get out of here if she can't relax, I think. So I whisper encouraging words and try to look calm, ignoring my thighs that are ablaze with exhaustion from holding this squat for three whole minutes.
When the deed is done, my adrenalin kicks in again. As soon as I move her, I know the monster will try to drink her down and shower my beloved child with its vile mist. So ever so rapidly and nimbly, I hold my breath, pick her up, pull up her pants mid-air, twist back towards the door, set her down, and almost shout my defiance in answer to the voice of the rushing waters.
But I was not to leave that stall unscarred. Because when I flipped her up and around and down, her beautiful magenta bow fell on the floor.
I did the only thing you can do when you're wounded to this degree.
I cried.
There in the Costco bathroom stall, I cried.
Then my daughter started to cry, thinking it was her fault, which thankfully snapped me back to reality. I picked up the bow with fingers three and four (because they're probably the most clean), stuffed it in my pocket, and reassured Daughter that she did a wonderful job, and I couldn't have asked for a better performance, and I'm not mad at her, just at the janitors.
We washed with the automatic faucets, using plenty of soap and scrubbing till our hands were red. When it came time to dry our hands, I looked in vain for the paper towels. Instead, I found those automatic air tunnels, where you dip your hands inside and they get blasted dry. There is no way I can dry us both off without touching the sides of the tunnel, I thought.
As Daughter started over to them, I pulled her back and told her we were just gonna shake our hands dry, because it's way more fun.
We can put a man on the moon, but really? We really can't find any solution to this pernicious problem? We have containment units for ghosts, sunlight and garlic for vampires, and buzz (or reciprocating) saws for zombies. And yet, we come up empty handed on this one? Surely clean energy solutions can be put on a back burner until we've got this figured out.
When we got home, I laid the bow on the granite counter and covered it with half a can of Lysol. Five minutes later, as per directions, I emptied the can on the now limp bow. When it was dried, I put it in the "hand wash" laundry hamper, where it now awaits my courage and laundry prowess to come rescue it. When it's done being laundered, I'll dump it in the trash bin, haul to the bow store, and buy a fresh one.
It's the only way to best the beast.
You would be amazed at how I can maneuver around a public bathroom using only my elbows and feet. I am a complete germ-o-phobe too.
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