I would rather not spend any time writing about children and bathroom issues. I get grossed out by that whole aspect of parenting, and would prefer not relive those situations, let alone record them for posterity. I’m entertained by others’ stories; it’s just ours I want to forget.
I’d definitely rather not write about stopping at a rest stop along the highway for a desperate three year old, who, despondent that the portable toilet had been forgotten, was even more freaked out by the ziploc freezer bag that his mother presented.
I would not like to recall that miserable three year old in the middle of the minivan dealing with this thoroughly distressing situation while his baby brother gleefully pulled at his hair in an unwelcome attempt to play and his five year old brother pulled out a camera to snap pictures of a strange man who had chosen to park directly next to said minivan rather than anywhere else in the acres of empty parking lot.
I would surely rather not relate the horror of the three year old as this man peered into our car, pressing his face to the glass, his interest no doubt piqued by the relentless young photographer, while the young boys’ mother hissed–then shrieked, “STOP taking PICTURES of that GUY! You’re just ENCOURAGING him!” while the three year old cried, “He’s going to see my PRIVATE AREA! HELP!”
At least I won’t have to worry about the young aunt in the minivan’s passenger’s seat relaying this story anytime soon, since she was studiously turning the pages of Lonesome Dove and imagining she was anywhere but there.