Porta Hell No
On Saturday we had the usual gathering of selves and stuff for soccer. Because we had a freak snow in March and then flooding in April (cue REM’s End of the World as We Know It), the spring soccer season is like the Energizer Bunny. It keeps going, and going, and going.
I asked Miss A twice if she had to use the potty before we left the house, and she piped back, “No! I no have to potty mommy!”
This is 3-year-old speak for “I do have to go potty, but I’m far too busy to be bothered with that whole emptying of the bladder thing, so please get out of my way you silly woman.”
So tra la la we headed to the field and got caught in the maelstrom of traffic as SUVs and minivans circled the lot like vultures on wheels. Miss A then announced from the back seat, “I have to go POTTY!!! I have to go POTTY mommy daddy!”
There are no public restrooms at the soccer fields, except for a row of porta potties. There they sit, baking in the direct sun, all weekend. I have somehow managed to avoid them except for one incident with Miss C. Basically I walk by them and think, “I don’t see you nasty porta-potties! La la la la la la la.”
We scurried from the car and Miss A and I trotted over to the porta potties.
“OK, here we go!” I said in my fake happy mommy voice as if she were about to hop on a pony.
I opened the door and Miss Princess reticently stepped into the porta potty. I left the door slightly ajar as it was going to be difficult to help her up on to the potty without actually touching it and I needed all the elbow room I could muster. I’d love to see David Blaine levitate a 30 plus pound little girl over a porta potty. Now that would be a good trick.
Miss A took one look into the poo and blue chemical cocktail of the porta potty and let out a blood curdling, “IT’S YUCKY MOMMY!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!” and starting dancing the “I must pee” jig.
“Baby, it’s OK. Mommy will hold you over the potty. Just don’t look down, OK.”
“No mommy! It’s blue! It’s YUCKYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!”
She was mortified and I can’t blame her, seeing as she barely towered above the potty seat.
“Miss A, it’s OK. Mommy will pick you up so you don’t have to touch a thing.”
No wonder my back was strained Mother’s Day.
We got out of there as fast as we could and all the while I was thinking I’d just as soon have her pee behind a bush, only knowing my luck she’d sit in poison ivy.
But I can guarantee she’ll remember to use the potty next weekend before we head to the last soccer game.
