Well, this is my initiation to blogging. Crystal has asked me several times to write something, but I have procrastinated.
After reading the previous post by Crystal, I am flattered. She is truly the best and far too kind to me. I had no idea that helping her shower after giving birth would have such an affect on her. So, no longer will I buy gifts and flowers, but intend to offer more bathing experiences for her. But I digress and have to remind myself that this is a family blog.
I had an experience with the three oldest Briden kids over the weekend that Crystal thought I might share to give some perspective of the day in the life of our family.
We went to our local grocery store and Crystal and Hope stayed in the car to take care of nutritional needs, while I took Grace, Faith and Luke into the store to buy ice cream for Grace's birthday. No sooner had we entered the store when Faith said she had to "go potty". Now, I acted like most fathers I know, and ignored her, in the hopes that the pressing need would just go away.
We proceeded to check out with our half gallon of chocolate peanut butter ice cream when Faith reiterated, "I really need to go potty", this time accompanied by a dance, immediately recognizable by any parent that urgent action needed to be taken (so much for ignoring the problem).
Fortunately, the restrooms were right at the exit. In past episodes such as these, I have just taken all the kids into a stall in the men's restroom and taken care of business. However, on this day, as luck would have it, the men's restroom was packed full of men, and no empty stall to be found. I thought of just waiting, but my girls have developed the habit of making a running commentary on everything that presents itself to their five senses. And, since discretion is a noticably absent quality in their running commentary, I thought a men's restroom was definitely not the best place to idly linger. In fact, in the brief encounter with the men's restroom, Faith's hyperolfactory sense kicked in (inherited from her mother) and she responded with an immediate "it stinks in here!" This resulted in several men, perched in mid-micturation, craning their necks around to see who had such a keen sense of the obvious.
We retreated to "no-man's land" between the men's and women's restroom and Faith continued with her modified Irish dance. I told Grace to go with Faith into the women's restroom and "help here". Grace had been six years old for an entire day by this time, so I thought she would be up to the task of taking a four year old to the bathroom (which, in hindsight now, I realize I am still hesitant to do, even at my age). For about two minutes, things were fine as women came and went from the bathroom, and Luke and I pondered the gumball machines.
Naturally, that didn't last (otherwise I would not be writing about this on the blog.) Grace came out of the door and said Faith needed my help. This often happens, even at home, and can usually be resolved with some encouragement, which I proceeded to do from the doorway. Then, the anouncement came that Faith had a more substantial effort than I expected. This, of course, can be traced back to the nondescript term, "potty", which was used. I mistakenly inferred that "potty" meant definition #1, when, in fact, she was implying definition #2.
I told Faith to make her best effort at "finishing" and mommy would help out when we got home (classic father technique, in times of trouble, punt to mommy). She would have nothing to do with that and insisted that I come in and help her. I told her, from the door, that I couldn't go into the women's restroom (all the while, women were entering and exiting). This was quickly followed with a sound resembling a fire alarm, my sweet child screaming for me to help her.
By this time Grace is in a panic and my face has changed the full spectrum of colors of red, encrouching upon the deeper tones now. Women exited the restroom on several occasions and notified me that my child was crying, as though anyone within a four block radium might be unaware. Finally, the last woman that I knew was in the bathroom, other than my Faith, exited the door with a distraught look on her face. Immediately another woman was about to enter and I pleaded with her to wait and watch the door so that I could address the screeching sound in the last stall. She said she would wait and stand guard, and then promptly told me that someone was crying - really?
I went to the stall, and sure enough, it was locked from the inside. Faith would not leave her throne, mostly due to previous instruction at home about not doing such things. (Why do kids always remember what you tell them to do when you don't want them to do it?) Anyway, I asked Grace to climb under the door and unlock it, which she thankfully did.
I finished the paperwork that needed to be done and consoled the poor girl in her first crash and burn solo flight to a women's restroom. We left as quickly as possible to a throng of 8-10 women standing at the door, wondering why a man was in the women's restroom. I would have chosen to leave that a mystery for them and leave right away, but there was no sign of Luke.
I couldn't see Luke and lost track during the commotion. I had to explain to the women why I was in the bathroom, many of which were beginning to do that all-to-familiar dance. I had to look everywhere for Luke as he was not outside the door. I went back into the women's bathroom and, sure enough, there was Luke. He was on the floor doing a commando crawl under all the stalls in the bathroom. I don't think he was going anywhere in particular, but he knew Grace had crawled under a door, so he thought he might try and help. He also had a stream of TP trailing from his knee.
So, the bathroom stop was completed, all three kids were accounted for, and I still had my ice cream in hand. We marched out of the bathroom, as the growing crowd of women poured in, and returned to the van to meet Crystal and Hope. Our quick stop at the store turned into one of my more harrowing experiences. Next time, mom can go into the store and I'll nurse the baby!
