I’m sure it’s not an official rule and, most likely, there has been no law penned against it; yet I am not so sure that it is acceptable to use the bathroom at your babysitter’s house.
Three days a week, my Jeffrey heads to Ms. Patty’s house. Did I mention how much I love Ms. Patty? I love her.
Ms. Patty is the most kind, loving woman with the most immaculate little house you can imagine. I hate to even step on her carpet. I literally walk in and stand on her welcome mat like I’m on a tiny island surrounded by shark infested waters. I’m too much of a trainwreck to touch anything of hers.
I did have to use her bathroom once. It was an extreme emergency. There was no way I could make it all the way to work. She warned me of what a mess it might be; she hadn’t been in there to clean it since her husband used it that morning. Let me tell you, not one hair in her sink. No splashes of shaving cream on the mirror. Clearly her husband knows better or has been properly trained.
Because of the coffee necessary to launch me into the day ahead, I’m faced with the dilemma, “To pee or not to pee,” nearly every morning. I need to put it out there that I have not always made the correct call. Consider this my confession.
I rolled the dice a few weeks back and was burned. I felt like I kind of had to go, but not too bad. Thought I could make it. Convinced myself that I wasn’t the same weak-bladdered pregnant lady that couldn’t hold her urine for more than 15 minutes at a time. Gave myself a little pep talk. Told myself I was a big girl now.
In my defense, traffic was a little heavier that morning. I was delayed a few minutes longer than usual. It was the longest fre-e-e-e-aking commute of my life.
I had continuously scanned the landscape for an escape route. Nothing. Not a gas station or a fast food restaurant. No convenience store. Not even a wooded area.
I begin to weigh my options, having conversations in my head about how late I will be if I just wet my pants and have to go home to change. I think about how to keep from soaking my upholstery. I scan the car for an empty bottle, and wonder how the hell I’m going to relieve myself without making the evening news.
Then it comes to me. If I just make it to the other side of the tunnels, there is a parking lot. I have a container of wipes that will make the perfect port-a-potty. Hell, I’ll even have wipes to tidy up a bit.
And so I did.
(…and I would do it again before stepping on Ms. Patty’s white carpets. Hell yes.)