Port-O-Problems

The spring has hit us this year, as it always does, with chaos of the no-time-to-breathe variety. We, the five of us, have been driving from field to field, game to game (although never together, and always in two separate cars) with nary a chicken nugget to sustain us, and if the winds are favorable that day, we might (**probably not) have all of the requisite sporting equipment for where we are headed. We are never home.

Craziness has consumed us.

If we could do the math for a moment, there are four field locations in town that we've been rotating between, which have six port-o-potties between them. They draw my children in. Call to them. Woo them with their wretched blue magic water that hides neither visual nor smell.

"Mommy," said Oliver one day in a wonder-filled voice of a boy who is horribly and happily three, "is that MY big, huge poop in there?"  He had just walked in and readied himself to add to the glorious and most extensive collection.

"No. No, it's not."

"Do you think a giant dog came in here and did that big poop?"

"Um, I don't think so. But maybe."

"That would be so silly," he concluded, all the while hovering over the poop under discussion, allowing us to fully appreciate its splendor.

Problem number one: The children think it's OK to have a discussion this long while inside the potty. It is not. Gag.

Problem number two:  Number Two at Number Three. On an extra special day a few weeks ago, we were at the farthest possible location from the potties - dreaded Baseball Field Number Three, where the child spectators have an array of broken glass ("Sea glass!!") ("Nope, just regular glass. Give to Mama, please!") along with a used mattress in their wooded "fort" area to entertain them. It is all sorts of awesomeness.  This is when the potties speak the loudest to them. Both the 6 year old and the 3 year old decided that they had to go IMMEDIATELY, and let's GO GO GO!

There are two port-o-potties side by side. Common sense dictates that I had to enter with the younger, sending my middle child in to fend for himself. The good news is that they have air vents that allow him to shout through so as to best communicate with me (along with every single spectator at Field One).

"Mom!! I have a bit in my pants! I couldn't wait!"

No. No. No. No. Noooooooooooo.

Meanwhile, I looked down to help Oliver, and not to be outdone by his big brother, he had decided to bless his undies just a bit, too.

You want to see graceful? You try to take dirty undies off the 3-year-old pooper while making sure he doesn't tumble in / touch anything / lick anything while contained in a 3 foot cube-o-filth, all the while listening to "Moooom! Can you come in and help me?!?" from the filth cube next door.

In the end, I took both pairs of undies off, folded them up nice and tight to contain the damage, left them in the car, and then bathed the children in the sanitizer-like substance they provide. When we finally got home and pulled into the driveway, I shoved the undies into my purse because my hands were full. And then, I got distracted. Distraction is a mother's enemy.

So, the next day, my husband was lucky enough to receive this text at work:

And finally, to make you feel so much better about your own personal parenting decisions - and also to show you that sometimes, the poop emoji might actually serve a purpose - I give you problem number three: The Day It Was Raining, I Was Wearing Flip Flops Inappropriate for the Weather, and Oliver Had to Go.

I'm on the fence as to whether I should even admit this or not. But in my defense, it was really cold, really rainy, and my wet feet just could not (COULD NOT!) handle yet one more trek through a sopping field over to the potty. We were watching the game from the shelter of the car, and we were so happy and so dry. And then, in what was probably a poor parenting decision, this:

(I sent this to my sister. Because if nothing else, sisters can laugh with you about poop and do not judge.)

This, my friends, is what motherhood looks like. It is not sexy. It is not even sanitary. But God bless the soul who created picture messaging so that I can share it.

So now, on this Saturday, we're off to gymnastics, one soccer game, and two baseball games. Since we must find the good in every situation and learn from our mistakes, I'll be wearing sensible footwear and will be armed with wipes, plastic bags and changes of clothes. I'm ready for what the day may bring. I just hope it brings us to potties that have recently been cleaned and emptied. I've set the bar very low for my happiness.

Happy Saturday, friends. May your day be free of all things portable toilet. This is my wish for you.