It’s been an eventful month. From the white sandy shores of South Beach to the NBC Studios in NYC…we came, we saw, we conquered.
For three glorious days friends and I lived the good life in Miami, eating, sleeping, drinking and doing whatever it is we please. Sipping mimosa as we cruised to the Bahamas, lounging by a South Beach pool with the buzz of electronica in our zenned out ears, reading full chapters of our books, eating hot food, drinking cold beers, and wearing heels! This mama needed a break to refresh, recharge and Miami delivered.
On the plane ride home I was jazzed to see my ladies. I’d missed their squishy little hands, their giggles, the way the smell like a nice warm shower…I couldn’t wait to give them squeezies, and tell Tiny all about the beach lined with Conch shells as far as the eye could see.
As the plane touched down, and I turned off Airplane Mode, the phone rings. It’s Nana presumably to tell me they are waiting outside to fetch me.
But, its not that simple. It never is. Liesee has to go potty and she only wants me to take her, they’re on their way in….well, that didn’t take long. My mom hat officially back on, I rush off the plane, find Nana, hand her my carry on and scoop up Tiny to head for the airport potty. She pees, I pee…pants up, tutu back on, check, check. I attempt to exit, doing my best to slide the lock but it won’t budge. We are trapped. I’m jiggling, wiggling, pulling, prodding…nothing. I start banging, knocking, (cursing), kicking…nothing. We have one choice, and it ain’t pretty. Our fight is gone, flight the only option…but who do I send under first.
There’s about an 8” clearance between the bottom of the stall door and the grimy tile floor, and the stall is small, really small (hard for two people even though one of them is a toddler to stand without touching the toilet or the door small) and I do a quick calculation in my head and decide Tiny has to go out first. The possibility of her running out of the bathroom without me seems less risky then the thought of leaving her in the toilet alone to touch and lick whatever she pleases. She ducks under in two seconds flat, and happily screams “its your turn mama!” And, the thought occurs to me, she’s actually enjoying this.
I get down on my knees to try and squeeze under, but the clearance is too low. I’ve got to bite the bullet and lay flat on my stomach and army crawl my butt out of there. I’m sick, and not from the tequila two nights earlier, but from the smell of lemon scented disinfectant and public restroom stank that’s washing over me as I slither out. While the bottom of the door is leaving a nice scrape across my spine, I’m struck by the hilarity of it all. Less than 24 hours ago I was lying out on a hot sandy beach, and now I’m lying on the cold, gritty floor of an airport bathroom. This is who I really am: a mama, her mama. Who else would lie down on the bathroom floor for her?
Tiny is thrilled, we’ve made it out, and I may as well be a super hero.…we both jump up and down and then perform a surgical scrub in the bathroom sink, making note to burn the clothes on our backs when we get home. Leave no evidence.
For a few short days I was all mine, and I needed that to reconnect with me. But now I’m all hers... bathroom cooties and all.