Independence comes at a price

On our trip home from Florida this past December, we made a pit stop at a gas station off I-75.  Richard was busy pumping gas so I was given task of taking Micah into the gas station to use the bathroom. I open the door to the women’s restroom and gesture for him to go in.  Micah folds his arms across his chest in protest. “Momma, I am five years old and that means that I can go potty in the boy bathroom”.  Reluctantly, I agree.  He enters the men's restroom, puffed up and proud.  I wait patiently outside in the hall.

A few minutes later a nice looking man in a business suit comes toward the restrooms.  I point to the men's room (as if to give him permission to enter) and tell him I am waiting on my son.  The man attempts to open the door.  It is locked.  I knock on the door and I hear Micah from inside, "I am not done."  I tell him, "Micah, there is a man out here who needs to use the restroom!"  I turn my attention to the man.  "I am sorry sir."  The man shakes his head politely, "It is ok."  I turn back and through gritted teeth say to the door, "MICAH, unlock this door."  As the door begins to open, I expect to see Micah emerge.  When he doesn't, I quickly peek inside before the door swings shut.  I see Micah's pants and shoes sitting aligned on the floor of the stall. 

I begin to get nervous.  I stand as close to the door as I can, without invading this business man's privacy.  There is a fine balance between providing privacy to a stranger and protecting my child from bathroom sexual predators.  I have watched those Dateline shows.  I know!  :)  So, I hear the toilet flush.  I step back from the door and act non-chalant; whistling a Christmas tune. 

The business man walks out and we exchange polite smiles.  I then open the men's room door just a crack and loudly whisper, "Micah, what is taking so long!?!"  Micah yells, "I AM POOPING!!!"  I feel all of the blood rush to my face as everyone in the gas station turns in my direction.  I smile meekly and wave.  

Next, another guy heads my way in need of the facilities.  He is wearing cowboy boots, a camoflauge shirt, and huge belt buckle is squeezed in between his beer belly and his jeans.  I quickly and discreetly try to size him up as my eyes glance from his scraggly beard to his greased stain hands, evidence of a hard days work.  I flash a fake smile as he enters the restroom and mutter to myself, "Don't you dare touch my son."  This modern day cross between Dog the Bounty Hunter and Charlie Daniels leaves and I again inquire through closed door of my son's progress.  "Still working on it", I am told. 

I go back to stand guard as the potty police when an African American male approaches.  He looks at me quizically as he opens the door.  He sees the little pants and shoes peeking out from under the stall and says, "Oh, you are waiting for him?"  "Yes", I reply.  "Now, hurry up dude", I think to myself, "so I can stop worrying about my baby." 

At least I am an equal opportunity worrier.  I am probably more untrusting than most mothers, given the job that I do.  I have seen and heard too many things. 

So, anyway, I continue to wait.  The third man emerges from the restroom and goes about his day.  May I make a note here that none of these men washed their hands!??!  GROSS!!! 

Finally, I hear Micah call me from the bowels of the gas station bathroom.  "MOMMA?"  I crack the door open - "Yes sweetie?" 

"WILL YOU WIPE MY BUTT???"

There is a price to independence, as Micah quickly learned that day.  If you are big boy enough to go into the men's bathroom, you are big boy enough to wipe your own butt!