Tag Archives: humor

Potty Talk

Posted on by under Laughter and Place

It was 2008, and I was in the bathroom stall again, my infant daughter balanced on my lap and my fully-clothed bottom perched on the edge of the toilet seat. I was not fully clothed on top–the entire point of this awkward visit. It was nursing time at the zoo.

Visiting the zoo was not a treat, but a tool of my sanity called “Get out of the house with the baby whenever possible.” At home, I was more likely to surrender; at home, I was more likely to start crying and not know how to stop. But not at the zoo. At the zoo, I held it together thanks to sunshine, distraction, and the presence of strangers.

There was no crying in front of strangers.

But also out of bounds in public–at least for self-conscious me–was wrestling with a hungry baby under a poorly-designed nursing cover. After a few close calls, my baby’s public meals took place in public bathroom stalls.

The ones at the zoo were the worst. First, they smelled like what they were–an endless parade of dirty diapers, muddy shoes, and children still learning to flush. Second, the tiny stalls were not made for multiple people. With all the balancing and odd angles, nursing was a circus feat–tightrope and clown car combined, heightened with the aroma of elephants.  

But smelly and crowded were small annoyances compared to the noise. The zoo had recently installed a super-vortex, skin-stretching hand-dryer, and every time that darn thing went off, my daughter would jerk her head toward the roar, and I would yelp in pain. (She was, after all, attached to a rather sensitive part of my body.) Scrambling to keep her head from hitting the toilet paper holder, I would nearly lose my perch.

It was all so ridiculous, it was laughable. But I didn’t laugh. I cried, and nursed, and cried some more. I cried until we were both done, and then I stared hard at the ground as we left the stall. I stared hard at the sink as I quickly dabbed my eyes with a wet paper towel. I didn’t want anyone to know.

There was no crying in front of strangers.

* * * * *

By the spring of 2010, I needed a double stroller at the zoo. A friend watched my toddler while I visited the stalls with the new baby, or I used the nursing cover. I didn’t care so much about the stares of strangers anymore–I had two kids under the age of three, darnit. Stare away. Thanks to a year of intensive counseling, a low dose of anti-depressants, and a second baby who slept much more than the first, my postpartum depression was abating.

The clouds were beginning to lift.

One day, someone asked me how I was doing, and I was surprised to hear these words come from my mouth: “Being a mother is no doubt the hardest thing that I have ever done. But I laugh, multiple times, every single day. It’s what keeps me going.”And it was true. I was laughing again. In the haze, I had barely noticed.

* * * * *

In 2013 both of my girls were weaned and potty-trained, but we were still crowding into bathroom stalls.

“I said first!” my youngest proclaimed one day, rightly,5272628825_4fee6a975f_o but her sister had already dropped her pants and planted herself on the toilet. I glared at her, “Just hurry up, okay?” My youngest recovered quickly, as she does, and crouched on the bathroom floor–she wanted to see the shoes of the person in the next stall. “Stop it!” I warned, “and don’t you dare touch that floor! I told you bathroom floors are dirty!”

My temperature was rising quickly, especially when I noticed big sister settling in with “number two,” which often took more than ten minutes. “Oh dear Lord,” I thought with some desperation, “Let the person in the next stall finish quickly.”

No such luck. The person in the next stall had also settled in, and I know this because my youngest suddenly announced “Mama! The lady next door has loud pooping! Did you hear it?”

She did not register the look of horror on my face as she looked up, waiting for my answer as if she was just making polite conversation. “Shh!!!!!!” I hissed at her, the force of my breath attempting to blow this humiliating moment away. “Shh!!!!” I wanted to run, to never leave the house again, perhaps to disappear completely.

And then I heard it. No, not the ‘loud pooping’, but giggling in the next stall. Giggling, and then laughing. And then my children were laughing, and I was laughing, and we were all laughing together in the two-stall bathroom. The ‘lady next door’ washed her hands and left, still giggling, but we stayed together, and the girls switched places. When our laughter subsided, my cheeks were damp.   

“Mama, are you crying?” I shook my head, but this wasn’t the whole truth. Sometimes, even in a bathroom stall, you laugh until you cry. And sometimes you cry until you laugh.

* * * * *

jen bio YAH

Potty photo by Keoni Cabral on Creative Commons

Naked Among Friends

Posted on by under Guest, Travel & Place

The day of the trip was gorgeous, sunny and warm. I arrived at the shoreline nervous and hopeful, wanting to make a good impression. Sarah had invited me to the lake, and Sarah would understand how I felt. She was a female pastor, like I was. We both knew what a struggle it was to feel out of place in a profession that tends to be mostly male and mostly older. I didn’t get invited to golf games or men’s retreats, and so I wanted to make the most of this day–connecting with colleagues while inner tubing and water skiing.

16810235579_4f640d352a_oAfter setting up lawn chairs and drink coolers around a barbeque pit, Sarah asked if I’d like to try jet skiing. I’d never ridden a jet ski before, but watching people zipping around the lake inspired an unusual confidence to try something new.

I watched as Sarah took the jet ski out onto the lake, the handlebars parallel to the footstand as she floated on top of it. Then, as she picked up speed; she came up to her knees. Finally, after going even faster and taking the handlebars up to a perfect 90 degree angle against the footstand, she happily stood tall on the tiny machine cruising along the top of the water.

It looked easy, as hard things often do when done by an expert. When she handed the jet ski over to me, I made my first attempt, revving the engine too soon and losing control before I got the chance to raise to my knees. I tried again, same result. Over and over I held the handlebars, floating on the surface, coming close but always losing my grip and letting go before I could stand up.

Without fail, as soon as the the handlebars slipped out of my fingers, the jet ski would begin to circle, zipping around and around in the cool black water like an eager puppy hoping I would play its favorite game, waiting for me to regain control. Frustrated and embarrassed that everyone on the shore was watching me get schooled by this tiny plastic machine, I tried to keep smiling as I adjusted my swimsuit and climbed back on, sure that I had it in the bag this time, only to feel the jet ski power away from my tired hands again.

On my ninth attempt, I felt it. I was going to get up this time. I had the handles firmly gripped and as the motor began to pick up speed, I was ready. And then – whoosh – the force of the motor blew back into the water and took the bottom of my black tankini with it.

I was naked from the waist down.

I motored forward, trying to slow the machine as I bobbed behind it, holding the handlebars horizontal on the water. Each second put me farther away from my now missing bathing suit. Even if I could have stood up, I didn’t want to show off my exposed lower half to everyone enjoying their afternoon at the lake. As it was, the force of the motor was pushing that most buoyant body part to the surface, effectively mooning every passing boat.

Not knowing what else to do, I decided to cruise into the cove where our group was eating lunch. I thought if I explained the situation while staying a little way out from the shore, I could ask someone to throw me a towel and possibly save myself the humiliation of this new group of friends and fellow ministers seeing my backside.

I held steady in the water at the edge of the cove.

“You guys,” I yelled. “The jet ski blew off my bathing suit bottoms. Can someone throw me a towel?”

After a few moments of confused looks from the shore, I yelled again, hoping someone would take pity on me.

A guy in his lawn chair stood up and yelled back, “Um, we don’t know you.”

I looked again and realized that indeed, this was a different cove and a different group of people than I had come with. I waved and began to motor away, my rear end floating to the surface as the strangers on the shore began to cheer.

I found our friends two coves down. I tried yelling for help but before I could even begin my story, they applauded, laughing, and threw me a towel, telling me that they’d heard me yelling to the strangers down the lake.

The camaraderie the rest of that afternoon was rich, the ice having been clearly broken by my lake-wide display. Instead of being embarrassed or feeling alienated by my escapade, I felt the welcome and affection that comes with shared experience. I lost my bottoms and with them my nerves, finding instead a place among friends.

* * * * *

100_1050“Naked Among Friends” was written by Lindsey Smallwood (far left). Lindsey loves being near the water and usually manages to stay fully clothed. A former pastor and teacher, she now lives in Boulder, Colorado with her husband and two young sons where you’ll often find her chatting at the park, walking by the creek or writing on the couch. You can read more on her blog Songbird and a Nerd or find her on Facebook.

Pelican photo by Lars Plougmann

 

Good Grief!

Posted on by under Role & Place

I wonder how many “eye rolls” a mother receives from her child[ren] during her lifetime. My mom is eighty-one, and she can still provoke a heavenward roll of my eyes. Why should I be surprised when I catch my grown children having an ocular revolution as a sign of disapproval or exasperation for something I’ve said or done?

I don’t remember at what age my children began sighing, shrugging their shoulders, and baring their teeth at me.

“My role in life is to embarrass you,” I would declare to them with a relaxed smile.

*  *  *  *  *

chuck

(Image from “Peanuts” by Charles Schulz)

My twenty-four-year old son and I have a new tradition of meeting for breakfast a couple of times during the week. There is a locally owned breakfast spot we have dubbed, “our place,” but one recent morning, we decide to try the breakfast fare at a nationally-recognized restaurant known for its omelets, massive muffins, and pancakes.

When we arrive at the restaurant, the hostess shows us to a booth and gives us laminated, grease-smudged menus. K starts perusing the multiple pages of choices. I prop my elbows on the table and smile to myself while gazing at his handsome face. His new beard suits him. He looks tired. I wonder how late he stayed up the previous evening.

“Mama, decide what you want,” he implores. “I’m hungry.”

I sin by asking: “What time did you get in bed? You look tired.”

“Mama, I’m fine. I’m fine,” he says. “Good grief.”

The eyes roll.

I divert my attention to the menu. The “make your own omelet” looks enticing, as do the potato pancakes, but I haven’t had french toast in ages. I flip over a couple of pages, and I almost flip out.

“Oh, look. Their old people menu is for the fifty-five plus crowd,” I squeal.

This is a rite of passage for me, sort of like turning twenty-one and ordering my first adult beverage.

A fledgling waiter, followed by a geriatric waitress, approaches our table.

“Don’t say anything,” says K. “You will embarrass him.”

I am not an obedient mother.

“I promise I am fifty-six,” I announce as I order my cheap omelet.

The eyes roll.

*  *  *  *  *

The childish things never given up—a roll of the eye or a heaving sigh—are softening my transition into the fifty-five plus club. The easy banter I enjoy with my children serves as a buffer for my heart as they continue to grow away (or get away) from me.

I just have to roll with it.