Purel, the god of sanitation

Weekend before last, Dain and I celebrated our 11 year anniversary.  And like all happily married couples the only way fitting to celebrate was to go somewhere without our child.  (I love my child, but know that I love him more when we have some apart time!)  We headed out to the gulf coast in hopes of getting nestled in somewhere on the beach.  All I could imagine was living out the words to some country song where my only goal for the day was to drink, tan, and watch people in bathing suits that shouldn't be made in that size.  There would be no crying, arguing, negotiating, begging, or bribing this weekend.  It was just for the two of us.  So naturally, I in no way expected to have anything for a blog about the adventures with my son.  How could I, when he was not even there? Right? WRONG.  My story this time is not one of my own, but rather one played out through someone else. 

Dain and I drove into Mobile late on Friday night with the intention of hitting the beach first thing Saturday (even before the condo was ready for us).  About 30 minutes outside of Mobile is a gas station that we seem to frequent every time we make this trip.  As I walked into the Women's bathroom, I was surprised to find that it was not as clean as I remembered. Although there were two stalls, one remained unoccupied due to the urine on the floor and pregnancy test on the back of the toilet (I'm hoping for that child's sake it was negative)! So as I waited for the one remaining stall to clear, I found myself with front row seats to a show that I had seen before. 

I could hear that there was a mother and small child in the bathroom.  Before even hearing the child, I could recognize the tone of a mother.  The firm but gentle way of trying to convince a slightly more independent being to follow instructions.  I listened as they talked, "are you finished?" "Wait just a minute, let Momma go now." "Yes, Momma's teetee'ing just like you." I smiled with a warm feeling about the relationship between mother and child and thought fondly of my child when all of a sudden the conversation shifted.  The mother gasped for air, and squealed, "Oh my God, no, stop!" I held my breath for her, as though in some mother to mother telekinesis, I supported her in her frantic state.  "Oh my God, please, Bailey, NO! STOP! DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING! OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD! THAT'S NASTY! DON'T TOUCH....OH MY GOD!" The stall rattled; her panic rang out; and there I stood, laughing my ass off! The stall door flung open and a disheveled mother and toddler emerged as she yanked him in one quick swoop to the sink to wash off what could only be imagined as the worst possible bacteria/disease lurking on the commode.  And in that moment, while trying to hide my laughter, I realized as mothers we are all the same.  We fight the same battles, have the same fears, and pray to the same god of sanitation, Purel!