It is not uncommon to be out with women and have one of them ask the other: do you want to go to the bathroom? Or more likely, one will announce that they need to use, or go to, the bathroom, and another will promptly reply: Me too. And off they go, together, like the reply was expected.
I often wonder what they go together for. Is it to talk about cute boys? Side by side in the bathroom stalls asking each other: who will the Cowboys acquire in free agency? (No one.) What about El Nino and exactly how many degrees of this summer’s heat can you attribute to this phenomenon vs. actual consistent global warming in general?
That’s why I was feeling a flood of emotions when my son recently asked me, while we were out at a restaurant, to go to the bathroom with him. Or it more went like this:
Jack: I need to go to the bathroom, daddy. Me: Ok, go for it—it’s toward the back of the restaurant on the left side of the bar. Jack: No, come with me, Daddy. Me: OK, good thinking.
So I motioned for his hand and he put his in mine and off we marched to the bathroom, together, two dudes, doing our thing. All the patrons eying us from their booths, vegetables hanging from their mouths, probably thinking how adorable we look, dad and son, going to the bathroom. And all I can think about is the work ahead.
As we were walking, I was unexplainably anxious about what we would talk about when sitting in stalls next to each other and tooting. Would we talk about pretty women? Moana? Spiderman? How long would we sit and talk? We could sit there until our legs fell asleep, until he fell in his toilet and I had to rescue him, until there was nothing more to discuss.
When we arrived, however, my worry was unfounded. There was no small talk. There wasn’t even any deep talk. It was a single bathroom, for one person, and Jack headed straight to the toilet seat, reached with his bare hand, and pulled the seat up. I would’ve used a piece of toilet paper to do that, but I didn’t get the door closed behind me and locked in time to see it happen. Before I started walking toward the toilet, Jack dropped his pants and underwear straight to the floor, pressed his thighs up against the toilet—you know, the base, the part without the seat that everyone pees on—and he just went. He went for about ten seconds, and then I myself had to go, so I began.
When Jack looked up and saw that I began, he scooted closer, stared up at my stream, and he, spontaneously, started up again. He had to be thinking there is no way my daddy is going to pee in here and I am not going to pee with him at the same time. Jack got to where his legs would touch mine, sliding his thighs along the porcelain, and I thought if my spray turns any less resolute, he might be in the line of fire. As it happened, both comrades avoided friendly fire. Jack finished before I did. He went to flush the toilet, underwear still on the floor, waddling over and waddling back. I was still going, so he went back and flushed again when I finished up.
Once I was done and he was done, we went over to the sink, but of course it’s twice as tall as he is. So I think about who should wash their hands first. If it’s him, I slide my forearms under his armpits, lift him up, and he turns the faucet on. I have to press his belly up against the counter to get him to stay there, hands-free, while I try to grab soap with my arm still under his armpit, and not drop him, and not get any on his clothes. Then we scrub hands together, and rinse, and he’s out of breath as his belly is released from the pressure of the bathroom counter that was holding him up. I set him down, grab some wipes, but he’s already opened the bathroom door with his barehand on the germ-encrusted handle, and that whole hand-washing cirque de soleil act was for not.
We go back to the table, changed men. I watch Jack eat his hamburger with his hands that just touched the doorhandle, and I lament the fact that we didn’t spend a second discussing El Nino, let alone the warm rain outside.
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