Never have I ever wanted summer to wrap up quicker. Let me rephrase, I’m ready for our community pool to close.
Why?
It’s not the sunscreen slathering, the soggy towels, or even the snacks that disappear faster than free samples at Costco. No, I’m over summer because of the crowded public restrooms.
Yes, friends, I’m tired of playing family-of-four bathroom Twister.
Scene One: The Sneak Attack 🤫
The scene goes as follows:
“I’m going to sneak to the bathroom,” I whisper to my husband while I think my daughters are oblivious. Wrongo.
“I need to go too!” my oldest shouts, while slipping on her Crocs. I don’t even blink and her two younger sisters are hot on my heels.
And just like that, it’s me + three small humans + one stall = Cirque du Toilette.
Bathroom Bingo 🚽
Once inside, the chaos begins:
- Touch-all-the-things Olympics: Trash can lids? Absolutely. Soap dispensers? Every. Single. One. But… why?
- Automatic dryers of doom: My four-year-old screams like we’ve entered a haunted house when they automatically blast on (sometimes “accidentally” courtesy of big sis).
- Door-flapping showcase: Who needs privacy when the entire locker room area can wave hello?
Oh, and don’t forget the fire-drill urgency: if it’s not the pool, it’s gymnastics or church. One potty. Always a line of judgmental strangers tapping their feet.
Plot Twist: Potty Training 🧻
My youngest is in the trenches of potty training, which means… yes, the fold-up travel potty seat comes everywhere with us.
And by kid #3, I’ve officially shed all shame. Little potty in the backseat? You bet. Drive-thru with a side of potty break? Don’t mind if we do.
Confession Corner 🤡 🚘
I was never that girl who went to the bathroom in packs during high school or college. Just call me Ms. Independent.
Fast-forward to motherhood, and suddenly I can’t pee without three witnesses, an emotional support potty seat, and a live studio audience.
So yeah, clown car vibes. Maybe when the pool closes, I’ll finally get to go to the bathroom… alone. Here’s hoping! Otherwise, I’ll have to start telling my husband with my eyes that I’m sneaking away. Or, find a real clown car as a distraction.
Lauren's Law 