The following is an essay written for an Intro to Psych class. The topic of the week was stress. Our teacher, Betty, asked us to write an essay recounting a stressful event in a comedic light stating that it is believed that doing so reduces the stress accumulated. So, we are about to get super personal. Enjoy!
So here I am…again. This is your Highness reporting for duty upon the porcelain throne. Yes we are thirty-five days in and still counting. Outlook is grim. This episodic explosive tragedy happens a few times a year in turn leading to lots of “meditative” sitting time. Here I present thoughts from the throne or alternately titled “Potty Mouth”. A Monologue. A one-lady show. A “one-lady” with P.H.I.D.S. (poop hole in distress syndrome).
I’ve had a pretty decent day. No sudden urges….No gurgles from the depths. It creeps up really sudd…OH!!
“Honey! Gotta go! Felix is in the living room!” I bolt out of my seat while trying to also hold on to my seat. Doing the penguin shuffle all the way down the hall I fling my self into the bathroom and almost in one fluid motion I slam the door, throw my pants down and sit all in the nick of time. Whew…that was close…I think I’m done. I get up and take care of business and wash up. Then the sounds from within come as I’m drying my hands. “Gurgle…GURGLE!” Again with the “I gotta go” dance to the john.
“Hmmm” I think to myself, “I though I had to go…I have to read. I can’t ever go unless I’m reading. Of course, nothing within reach for reading material.” I lean over my lap and try to look for something…anything, to read. I look up on the counter. All I’ve got is lotion….I read.
“Aveeno Baby Calming Comfort. Lotion contains lavender and vanilla – natural ingredients with calming and relaxing properties. Combined with natural colloidal oatmeal, known for its ability to retain moisture and soothe skin, this non-greasy formula helps heal and protect your baby’s skin….” And, release. I throw the bottle on to the counter and it slides into the sink. Done again, and commence the ritual after dropping off the heresy chocolate. Hand washing. I toss the lotion on to the shelf. Dry my hands. “GUUUUURGLEEEE!”
“You’ve got to be kidding…” I fly on to my seat again. Not being able to be distracted enough to just go I clamber my hand over the counter looking for that baby lotion to read again. I look up. There it is, on the shelf. I think “Damn you, Mom!” She got the habit drilled into me “Everything has a place and every place has a thing” she would recite. I can’t find anything to read so I resort to my distraction techniques formed in public restrooms. Counting. You can count ceiling tiles, floor tiles, bolts, the list goes on really. I count the floor tiles. I already know there are 32, but I’m not counting the geraniums on the shower curtain again…and release. And, hand washing ritual.
I have been in the bathroom for 45 minutes. My husband has filled and started the dishwasher, changed the baby’s diaper, put the baby down for a nap, changed the laundry, folded the laundry, and made me some lunch. I secretly think “I should spend more time in the bathroom when I’m not sick…”
Open scene. I’m at Toy City. Briefly, it’s a toy store meets fantasy gamer nerd store meets baby supply store meets model train store. It’s bizarre at best. The cashiers are thirty something, over weight, goatee sporting, glasses wearing nerds that know too much about changing tables and infant car seats. I’m here for what my family has fondly dubbed a “baby jail”. Really its just a large penitentiary to protect the baby from unintentional suicide. I mostly use it while home alone with the baby and having a sudden urge to serve up a pu pu platter.
So I locate said baby jail. Price it and read the side panel like a good parent and pretend to look concerned. Really what I’m doing is noticing that I’ve got some gurgles and I’ve never used the bathroom here. I’m searching out of my peripheral vision trying to locate the nearest exit and or powder room.
“Oh man!” I stand up straight, no longer interested in the safety demographics on the stupid box. Rushing like my life depends on it, I run up to one of the card-board smelling men. “Where is your bathroom?” I spout out.
“Its for employee use only” He states quite matter-of-factly. In that moment its too late. My face flushes red and my brow furrows….”Tell me where your bathroom is now….please.” He points behind him down the hall. I’m not sure if he is afraid of my mama bear energy or if he knows I just crapped my pants. Literally.
I do the penguin shuffle down the hall knowing that more is to come. I’m panicked, I’m terrified, I’m mortified, I think I might cry. I look down at the one year old on my hip and he’s giving me the biggest (pardon me – its just so appropriate) shit eating grin.
A little side about Felix. He is the happiest baby born into this crappy world (I’m pretty sure I pooped on him when he was born). That baby has the most plastically perfect happy face ever and you cant look at him and not smile just a little, at least.
So back to my waddle waltz down the hall. I look down at this six toothed smiling maniac who is giggling from the jostling and he’s looking at my face in a “This is great” sort of way and I loose my grip on reality. I start laughing.
While still slightly horrified, I franticly try to find a safe somewhat clean place to land my crawling baby. And from the gentlemen I described earlier you can imagine the standard of hygiene they hold for this lavatory.
“GURGLE!” I run in a stall. I lock the door and say to hell with the sanitation and the baby goes on the floor in a pile of loose toilet paper pieces. He thinks is great. He’s grinning ear to ear with all six of his pearly whites showing and I’m on the loo slipping off my shoes trying to figure out if I can salvage my pants. I can. The underwear must go though.
While my pants are around my ankles and my soiled panties in precarious positions Felix discovers that he can crawl under the bathroom stall. I reach out slamming my thumb into the…you know what. I extend a foot and my toes entertain him enough to keep him from absconding.
Now I have soiled underwear, a dirtied thumb, and inevitably a yucky thigh. Could this get worse. Yes, Betty, yes it can. There is no toilet paper save what my son is sitting on. I grab some from under him and quickly inspect it clean up my hand and thigh and peel off the unwanteds. I remember the wipes in the diaper bag and clean up best I can. I throw out the undies not caring if they are exposed in the trash or not because lord knows I’m never showing my face here again. I pull up my pants, now flying commando I make a mental note of all of the bathrooms between here and home. I lace up my shoes and gather up the diaper back and the baby. Taking a deep breath I have survived. Felix thinks this is great and looks up at me with his sweet little face, which starts to twist in to strained reddened shapes. He poops. Of course he does. I clean him up and go buy the baby jail. As evidenced by the current event, I’m going to need it. I will never return to Toy City.
As to what’s going on with my body, the doctors and specialists don’t know. I’ve had test after test of every fluid from blood to saliva to stool (that’s a whole different comical essay) taken. I’ve even had a colonoscopy. “I don’t know Melody, you are as clean as a whistle”. Some day I’ll find out what and why this happens butt for now I sit on my throne, pray my babies are safe, count tiles, and rule as the over lord of the little girl’s room.