Port-a-Party

As a mom, there are some things you just have to get over. Like how your kids suffer temporary hearing loss when you call them to bed but can respond with bat echolocation when you slowly unwrap a Twix bar from the closet. Or when people tell you how adorable your kids are and then follow it up by saying that they look EXACTLY like your husband. Or the way they top off the bath you've just given them by dashing into the backyard to sprinkle plant dirt over their heads.

Actually, this last one has given me some trouble. I'm not "getting over" the germ and dirt dilemna as well as I'd hoped. In fact, the older I get, the less tolerable I am towards it. I wouldn't exactly call myself a germaphobe, but I'm well on my way. Ask any of our nature-loving friends who've invited us to go camping with them countless times over the years and they'll tell you they've never heard so many lame excuses come out of one person's mouth. I can only assume they still invite us because they like to annoy me.

Life as a marginal clean-freak is a strange reality for me because I was the complete opposite growing up. According to family folklore, I was part gopher or wombat as a kid. In my world, every day was Earth Day. If I wasn't digging a jacuzzi-sized hole in the backyard, then I was busy building my lucrative mud pie business, or more likely, racing handmade boats down street gutters. I remember eating my dinner in the bathtub on more than one occassion because my own family couldn't stand the sight of me at the table. Every few days my poor mom had to wrestle me into the shower because the PigPen Cloud had reappeared. My childhood nickname said it all. Rather than going for one of the obvious choices like Princess or SweetPea, my family settled on something a little less conventional. Sootsie. As in SOOT, meaning DIRT. Yeah, it was that bad.

I recently thought about this transformation from grimy girl to antibacterial adult when the kids and I joined our neighbor Linda and her yellow lab, Nettie, at Dog Beach. We were so excited to spend an afternoon playing in the sand and surf with our neighborhood pals. So excited, in fact, that I didn't really consider the details of being on a beach overrun by animals- slobbering, peeing, and pooping animals. Not exactly the ideal environment for someone who can barely stomach changing her own kids' diapers.

As we followed the path down into the sand, my heart started racing. I felt like I was going to be sick. Then we were there, within steps of the sand, sand that I suddenly realized had been ca-caed on by millions upon millions of dogs for millions upon millions of years, sand that was about to come oozing between my toes. I wanted to turn around, go racing back up the trail to the car, but Lil' Miss was way ahead of me, skipping and giggling as her feet kicked up clouds of excrement. I made my way toward her and watched as she set down her bucket of beach toys. The sight of those toys by the water reminded me that we were not only going to walk across this sand, we were going to play in it. Dig in it, roll around in it, and, in the case of Baby Dude, FEAST on it. I could barely keep down whatever was trying to make it's way back up my throat. I tried to follow the same advice I give Lil' Miss when panic sets in, "Breathe, girl. BREATHE!"

And just as I started to calm down, Lil' Miss announced, "I have to go potty!" Upon further inquiry, I discovered it was not the kind of potty that can be resolved in the ocean. I looked around, half hoping a beachfront restaurant with well-maintained bathrooms in the rear (no pun intended) had suddenly appeared, but no such luck. Only a row of port-a-potties back by the trail we started at. This was pure torture. I'd have gladly taken the rack over this.

While Linda stayed with Baby Dude, I grabbed Lil' Miss's hand and half-ran across that sand over to those bright blue potty rooms, our own private cesspool. I coached and lectured Lil' Miss the entire way and in between her huffs and puffs (because I was walking REALLY FAST) she said, "I know, Mom. I won't touch ANYTHING." In moments, we stood in front of one of the doors and I just stared at it. Not moving, not doing anything. Other than cringing. I REALLY didn't want to do this, but I also knew that my daughter really needed to "go". Ironically, this filthy stall was the only civility separating us from those beach-squatting dogs. It had to be done.

Not wanting to touch the handle, I pried open the door with my foot figuring it had already been contaminated by the sand. I will spare you a description of what I saw inside. I won't tell you about the murky substance on the floor, or the soggy clumps of toilet paper, or the trail of ants or anything else. I will only say that while I was laying down enough toilet paper to mummify an Egyptian and ranting like a crazy woman, "No! Don't touch the walls! Don't touch the seat! Don't touch ANYTHING!", I failed to notice my own girl's reaction to this glorified outhouse. She'd never seen one of these, let alone used one. And while she sat there, surveying the squalor, she looked up at me with the hugest smile on her face and exclaimed, "Mom, this is so much FUN!"