The plane is making its final descent and the seat belt sign is on.
“I gotta pee.”
Of course, both my children would decide that they need to pee the moment we are asked not to move out of our seats. We were coming from the land where all attractions and rides end with a walk through overpriced gift shops and the “Can I have this Mommy” echos from all corners of the room. Needless to say, my motherly “I am in charge” force field was weak and I could barely keep up with my aggressive children.
“Hold it until we reach the airport,” was all I could bare to say. Traveling without my husband on a flight that was showing a film that was of no interest to my children AND all possible games, ideas and conversations had been spent, I was nearing my breaking point.
Their bladders held until we reached the lavatories on land. Ushering both of my children and their bags into the very public restroom while confirming pick-up times on my blackberry with my brother, I was working on empty fumes. I placed the phone in my back pocket sent my oldest in one stall and took my youngest into another….and then, I did the unthinkable.
Looking back, it all happened so quickly. One minute I am maneuvering bags, coats and buttoning pants and the next minute my hand and arm are diving after my blackberry sitting at the bottom of the urine filled toilet. “Mommy put her hand in my pee pee water,” squealed my little one. “So GROSS,” said my oldest. “Does your hand feel like its burning?”
Suffice it to say – breaking point reached and then some.
Yes. I stuck my hand into the toilet at the airport and grabbed my phone. I reasoned with myself that it was just the urine of my son, the little boy who grew inside my belly for nine months and whose rear I wiped for several years later, but I was fooling no one.
As we walked to the arrival area in search of our ride home, I couldn’t decide what sickened me more. Reaching into the toilet after the phone or the fact that I stupidly sanitized it in hopes I could use the phone to make one last call.