Bleachable Moments

One of my favorite things to do with all three kids is to go to public restrooms.

No, I'm sorry, I got that wrong. What I meant to say was that going to public restrooms with three kids under 5 years old is enough to give me a heart attack. Yes, that sounds more correct.

It was a beautiful day recently. We hit a park and got Alan to join us for a picnic. And because I didn't want to go home (the house stays cleanerish and there are fewer toys to fight over), we decided to stop at another of our favorite parks on the way home. Pretty soon after we got there, Owen started to do the potty dance. So off to the bathroom we go!

Emery is in the stroller, so we carefully maneuver into the restrooms. Luckily, at this park they're fairly well maintained, but they're still public park bathrooms, so I bark my standard, "Don't touch anything!" orders. I park Em outside of the stalls. Stall door open, I line toilet paper on the seat for Owen and hop him up onto the toilet. "Don't touch the toilet!" I implore, as he puts both hands down on the toilet to steady himself.

Owen starts squirming, scared of the automatic flush. It flushes despite my best attempts to keep it from doing so, Owen hops down and we pull up his pants. It's about this time Emery starts crying. Because nothing lessens the good old blood pressure like a baby crying.

Avery's turn! Baby's crying, let's get this going! Here comes Avery with sticks in both hands. Because if sticks are one thing, it's helpful. I throw the sticks to the ground. Avery gets going on the toilet, and I vaguely hear Owen talking to Emery. Oh, that's sweet, I think. Avery wraps things up and we come out of the stall. I see Owen, bless his heart, helping Emery get her pacifier to her mouth.

Scenes flash before me: Hand. Toilet. Pacifier. Baby.

I remove the pacifier while thanking Owen for helping and try to lower my blood pressure back to normal. We head over to wash our hands (and the pacifier).

I don't know if most of you know this, but hand washing time isn't just time to get clean. No. It's the time when tiny humans get to start stressing about the hand dryers. Because warm, blowing air is the stuff nightmares are made of, according to both of my children. So we soap up, and luckily Avery can be convinced to dry her hands in the Devil Air Dryer. Owen, however, cannot. He's like, "No, I'm cool, I'll just drip dry." He shakes his hands as if to demonstrate that they're basically pretty much already dry and no loud dryer is needed. I wash my hands and the pacifier and turn around. To find Owen with toilet paper in his hands drying them. Toilet paper of unknown origin.

We wash his hands again and head out.

No sooner do we hit the play area than Owen starts to potty dance again. "Owen," I say. "Did you even go to the bathroom?" Like I even needed an answer.

Off we went again.