The Poor Sea Turtles
I’ve just returned from my five state bathroom tour of 2008. Anyone who has ever vacationed with children will know what I mean when I say we spent more time last week focused on finding bathrooms than we did on sightseeing. I now know where the bathrooms are in two Krogers, three WalMarts, a small food shack in Beaufort, South Carolina labeled for use by "employees only", a beach changing area on Hunting Island, the county assessor’s office in Savannah, Georgia, and ... well never mind. You get the picture.
Why is it that children who can hold their bladders through a ten-hour Spongebob marathon suddenly have pee emergencies every half hour when there’s no bathroom to be found?
We spent most of the week vacationing on a private beach on Hilton Head Island. The beach was advertised as a "short five minute walk across a boardwalk." A "short" walk became an adventure to rival the Lewis and Clark expedition when you added in three kids in flip flops, beach chairs, a boogie board and a bag loaded down with sunscreen, water bottles and snacks.
Knowing that it was a long walk back to the condo, every time before we left for the beach I’d tell the kids to use the bathroom.
"But we don’t have to go," all three of them would say because they never have to go when there’s a bathroom nearby. But if we have to stop a tour bus and race into a food shack to use the "employee only" toilet, then they have no problem emptying their bladders.
"Pee anyway. There’s no potty on the beach." So under protest, I’d march all three kids into the bathroom just to be safe. And wouldn’t you know it? As soon as little feet hit hot sand, one of them would start doing that familiar dance universally recognized by all parents.
By day three, I did something I’m not proud of.
"Mommy, I gotta go bad." Lauren told me just as soon as we sat down all the crap we’d hauled to the beach.
"Just go in the ocean," I whispered. She blinked and stared at me like I’d suddenly morphed into a form of evil she couldn’t quite wrap her seven-year-old brain around. In her defense, I’m the Mom who carries hand sanitizer, lectures the kids on germs and dodges the crab poop for fear of ending up with sea creature feces on my bare feet. Yet, I’d just told the child to go swim around in her own pee.
"I can’t do that." Lauren was looking at me like I’d just suggested she pick her nose in front of the cute second grade boys.
"It’s the ocean," I said, eyeing that "short five minute" walk back across the boardwalk. Using my most convincing Mommy voice, I said, "Pee is good for the sea turtles." (Hey, it might be true. Don’t judge me until you’ve walked a mile across a marsh in my flip flops.)
"But Mom." This child was still wailing and dancing. "I have to go number two!"
Well darn. That can’t be good for the sea turtles.
