I'll Call It a "Rite of Passage" for Mommies

I've heard my friends talk about it. I've read about others' experiences of it in parenting magazines. I've even witnessed it firsthand. Somehow, however, I never thought I would get to that point in my child-rearing experience. Somehow, I thought my children would stay tiny and mute forever, or at least they would just know how to behave without me having to "shush" them under my breath.

Well, it has now happened to me. I am now one of the millions of mommies who must endure the potential humiliation on a semi-regular basis for the next few years at least. What, you may ask, is this dreaded experience to which I refer?

Taking a preschooler into a public restroom.

I vaguely recall those carefree days before babies when I could excuse myself to the ladies' room, go about my business, wash my hands, check my hair, freshen my lipstick, and return to my dinner companion or shopping cart in under five minutes. That is not the case now. No, now it is a far different experience altogether. Let me give you an example.

Today, I took Isabella and Sophia to Kohl's. As I was browsing the half-price picture frames, I decided to take a "quick" pit stop. I pushed my double stroller to Customer Service and into the ladies' restroom. This, by the way, is no easy job in and of itself. I love my double stroller, but when you are by yourself and attempting to move through any doorway, it might as well weigh 300 pounds and be the length of a railroad car.

Anyway, I made my way to the rear of the restroom to the handicapped stall, which is the only one large enough to accommodate my babies' behemoth ride. I carefully pushed them inside, taking care to park it just far enough away from both the wall and toilet seat, so that little hands couldn't touch anything even if they wanted to, which they did. I gave Isabella a stern warning not to put her hands on anything; Sophia just grinned open-mouthed, as usual.

Anyway, as I went about my business I was made privy to a point-by-point analysis by my eldest child of every sound that transpired. (My apologies to poor ladies who had to endure a critique of their business). The next few minutes went something like this:

(Woman enters restroom and chooses the stall next to ours)

Isabella: "You hear that?"

Mommy: "Yes, sweetheart, I do."

(Woman proceeds to do that which one is expected to do in a restroom)

Isabella: "You HEAR that?!"

Mommy: "Shhh, yes, sweetheart. Let's see if we can be quiet for a minute."

Isabella: "Mommy has to go potty!"

Mommy: "Yes, sweetheart, mommy does have to go potty. Let's talk about something else."

(Woman flushes toilet in the next stall)

Isabella: "Flush! Flush! Flush! YOU HEAR THAT!!!"

Mommy (as I take some toilet paper): "Yes, honey, that's a toilet flushing."

Isabella: "Mommy has toilet paper! Hi, toilet paper! Hi! Hello, toilet paper!"

Mommy (trying to leave as quickly as possible): "Okay, Isabella. Let's go bye-bye now. Mommy needs to wash her hands."

Isabella: "Is-bella wants to wash her hands, too. Is-bella wants to wash her hands, too. Is-bella wants to wash her hands, too..."

Mommy: "Okay, fine. Let me get you out of the stroller. Here, let me hold you up. Let's roll up your sleeves. Okay, here's some soap. Rub your hands together. No, don't splash the mirror. Yes, Isabella is pretty. Okay, here's a paper towel. Dry your hands. Let's get back into the stroller. No, you can't have princess cookies right now. Are you ladies ready to go?"

(Sophia just smiles open-mouthed, as usual, and I think to myself, "Uh-oh." I feel her pants and sure enough, I realize I can't leave the dreaded bathroom yet. You-know-who needs a diaper change. So, I unstrap Baby #2, change her diaper, and wash my hands again. All the while I acknowledge the empathetic looks cast my way by each and every woman who enters the restroom and witnesses me changing the diaper of one wiggly baby, carrying on a conversation with the second overly-verbose child and using my hot-pink-polished toes to scoot my mammoth stroller out of the way of each person who walks by. When I checked my watch, I discovered I had been in that torture chamber for nearly 15 minutes.

So much for my quick trips to the ladies' room.