There are a lot of things motherhood prepared me for.
Sleepless nights. Public meltdowns. Random bodily fluids. Carrying snacks everywhere like I'm preparing for the apocalypse.
But nothing—and I mean NOTHING—prepared me for the absolute nightmare that is taking small children into a public bathroom.
Especially as a boy mom.
When they were little, going to the bathroom wasn't something I got to do alone. Oh no. It was a family event.
You'd cram yourself and your tiny humans into the handicap stall because it's the only one big enough for everyone, and the second you sit down, one of them decides this is the perfect opportunity to escape.
You're mid-pee whisper-yelling:
"DO NOT OPEN THAT DOOR!"
Meanwhile, they're already unlocking it.
Or they'd decide they were old enough to wait outside.
"I'll wait right here, Mom!"
Absolutely not.
Because apparently standing three inches outside the stall while repeatedly trying to open the door counts as "waiting."
And being a boy mom adds another fun layer.
"Just turn around and look at the corner."
"Why?"
"Because Mommy is going potty."
"I'll just go outside."
"NO. LOOK AT THE WALL."
Then comes handwashing.
Why are public bathroom sinks designed exclusively for NBA players?
You've got a three-foot-tall child trying to reach a sink built at chest height, so you're awkwardly hoisting them into the air while they slap at the automatic faucet like they're trying to activate a secret portal.
Suddenly there's water everywhere.
On the counter.
On their shirt.
On you.
On the floor.
Congratulations. The public bathroom is now a splash pad.
Sometimes hand sanitizer is just easier.
And the entire time you're repeating:
"Don't touch that."
"Don't touch the toilet."
"Don't touch the wall."
"WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING THE FLOOR?!"
"GET YOUR HANDS OFF THE FLOOR!"
I swear children enter public bathrooms and immediately develop an overwhelming desire to touch surfaces they have never cared about touching anywhere else.
But here's the thing.
Kids aren't even the grossest part of public bathrooms.
ADULTS ARE.
I have one question that I have asked far more times in my life than any human being should have to ask:
HOW DID THE POOP GET THERE?!
Seriously.
How does poop get on a WALL?
What happened?!
Was there an incident?
Was there turbulence?
Did someone sneeze at a critical moment?
I don't understand the physics involved, and quite frankly, I don't want to.
Then there are the people who don't flush.
WHY?!
Or they flush once, clearly see that everything did not go down, and apparently think:
"Eh. Someone else's problem now."
Ma'am.
Courtesy flush.
Flush twice.
Flush seven times if necessary.
Just finish the mission.
And can we talk about the number of women who leave public bathrooms WITHOUT WASHING THEIR HANDS?
I have witnessed it.
More than once.
They just walk straight out.
No water.
No soap.
Nothing.
And now I'm standing there staring at the door handle realizing I have to touch the same thing they just touched.
Wonderful.
New fear unlocked.
Then we have the phone people.
Why is your CELL PHONE ON THE STALL FLOOR?!
That phone is going back into your hand.
Then onto your face.
Then probably onto your kitchen counter.
I cannot.
And speakerphone conversations in public bathrooms need to stop immediately.
I don't want to hear your conversation.
The person you're talking to does not need to hear me pee.
I did not consent to being a background character in your bathroom conference call.
But there is one public bathroom situation that causes a very specific type of panic.
You walk into the bathroom.
No one else is there.
And it smells.
BAD.
Like BAD bad.
You immediately consider leaving.
If I can hold it, I'm out.
But sometimes you've been holding it for 45 minutes, your bladder is threatening legal action, and you have no choice.
So you go.
And the entire time you're praying:
Please don't let anyone walk in. Please don't let anyone walk in. Please don't let anyone walk in.
Because if someone walks in now, they're going to think YOU did it.
And I desperately want to announce:
"IT WAS LIKE THIS WHEN I GOT HERE!"
But somehow yelling that from a bathroom stall feels even more suspicious.
So instead I sit there silently knowing some stranger is probably walking back to her friends saying:
"Girl, don't go in there."
And I'm innocent!
Then we have porta-potties.
No.
Absolutely not.
I am not a porta-potty girl.
I will calculate exactly how dehydrated I can safely become before I voluntarily enter one.
Because porta-potties take the whole "HOW DID IT GET THERE?!" situation to another level.
You walk in and immediately see something that makes you question humanity.
How?!
How did you even physically accomplish that?!
I don't want answers.
Actually, I do.
But also I REALLY don't.
And somehow I thought porta-potties were the bottom of the public bathroom hierarchy.
I was wrong.
On my last trip, we went to a state park that had what can only be described as...
A hole in the ground.
Technically, yes, there was a toilet-looking structure involved.
But underneath?
GIANT. HOLE.
Basically a massive permanent porta-potty that doesn't get emptied like a normal porta-potty.
I looked down once.
That was my first mistake.
Because apparently my criminology brain does not see a giant mysterious hole filled with things I don't want to identify and think:
"That's a bathroom."
No.
My brain immediately goes:
There are body parts down there.
Are there actually body parts down there?
Probably not.
Did that stop my brain from becoming convinced that some park ranger is eventually going to discover a missing person in the world's worst toilet?
Also no.
I peed as fast as humanly possible and got OUT.
At this point, I think I've experienced enough public bathrooms for one lifetime.
I've chased toddlers away from stall doors.
I've lifted children up to sinks.
I've yelled "DON'T TOUCH THAT" approximately 46,000 times.
I've witnessed unflushed toilets.
I've seen things on walls that should never be on walls.
I've silently judged non-hand-washers.
I've accidentally participated in strangers' speakerphone conversations.
I've been falsely implicated in bathroom smells I DID NOT CREATE.
I've survived porta-potties.
I've stared into the abyss of a state park toilet and wondered whether Dateline needed to be called.
I'm done.
Can I please just go back to working from home?
I don't need fancy benefits.
I don't need an office with snacks.
I don't need team-building activities.
I just want to pee in my own bathroom, where I know exactly who made the smell.
And unfortunately...
it's probably one of my boys.
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