Pumpkin Patch Outhouse

No, no, NO!  No ucky potties!” 

 

Three year old Railynn has no holding power left.  She wails loudly as tears fall in torrents down her sun reddened cheeks.  We are standing in front of two port-a-potties.  Rae loudly repeats her disdain for ucky potties just in case I hadn’t heard.  She is very close to meltdown.  She has to go badly and she will not, under any circumstances, go in a port-a-potty.  Even standing near one dissolves her into a puddle of horror. I remember utter dread of our cabin outhouse, when I was little, so I sympathize.

I'm horrified now too, for other reasons.  Not only am I baffled about what to do, but I can’t believe we’re reliving this exact port-a-potty drama from last year's foray into the pumpkin patch.  Back then, her 2yr old wails flustered me so much I was almost rendered useless.  It happened near the end of our adventure so we just made a mad dash home after foiled attempts to find relief. 

This year, I reminded her about the no bathroom policy at the pumpkin patch and she made sure I observed how she took care of business before getting in the car.

And yet, here we are in front of the ugly boxes of dungeon-toilets.  Again.  Again, I am pondering the options. Duck into the corn field and risk getting chased out by the barrel train driver like last year.  No thank you! Have her squat right in front of the port-a-potty. Don’t think so. Tell her to hold it, and hope she can!  

Stupidly, I choose the last option.

“Oh Rae, I’m so sorry but if you can’t go in the port-a-potty, you’ll have to hold it.” I lead her away from the horrid outhouses.  She cries harder.

“The gwass, Nana, I’ll pee in the gwass. Wite here, Nana, please, I can just go in the gwass.” 

“Railynn, you can’t just pee on the grass.”

But, I’m so tempted.  Thoughts ping pong in my head.   Who cares if a little kid pees on the grass?  She’s three; not two anymore – there’s less grace for a 3yr old. What is worse – a 3yr old girl going on the grass or wetting herself in public?  People will think I’m an incompetent grandma.  People will know it’s an emergency. It’s only been an hour since she went potty back at my place – she can hold it.   

We make it halfway up the barn hill. Ahead of us the open barn is full of kids slopping paint or blasting glue all over pumpkins, covering them with color, pompoms, pipe cleaners and sequins. I make eye contact with Papaw, imploring him –please help!-  he shakes his head.  He’s busy juggling 6yr old Avery’s demands for exotic paint colors with toddler Jude’s desire to pull the glued pompoms off other kids’ pumpkins.  

Rae yanks me to a stop, pulls at her jeans and screams.

“Nana, wite now, I have to go wite now!! ” 

I’m in a panic. We're too far gone to dash home. I glance around desperately – there has to be creative way to end to this crisis. To our left is the hay tunnel.  No, don't even think about that.  She won’t go in there anyway, without a flashlight.  To our right is the food stand, no possibilities there. Behind us is the barrel train. One part of my brain frantically scrambles for a solution, another part is paralyzed like I'm the one about to wet myself. Who is watching this melodrama?  Are the sweaty, tired moms and dads noticing and feeling my pain?  Are the other grandparents tsk, tsking?  

Suddenly, I don’t care about anyone but my grand-daughter.  I know exactly what to do. I march her down the barn hill and tell her to sit in the grass.

“Wait one second, honey,” I say as I quickly arrange some things.

“Huwway,  I have to go weally, weally bad. Huwway.”

I shield her left side with Jude’s diaper bag, and use my own body to shield her right side.  Her backside is shielded by the bank of the barn hill.  She helps me wriggle her clothes down and out of the way.  

“Ok, GO.” I smile encouragingly. 

“I’m going Nana, I’m going,” she sighs.

She smiles up at me all adoration and gratitude. 

My heart melts.  What a pathetic piece of grandmother, I am sometimes! This beloved tiny person is only three but she knows her body.   How can I be more concerned with propriety, or what others’ think, than her body wisdom.  Of course I’m not saying propriety is unimportant.   I’m just chagrined at how I just encouraged this little one to ignore body signals or feel ashamed of them.  I remember how I used to postpone my body’s needs for rest, nourishment, water, exercise, relief, solitude or stillness in order to be ultra-polite and not inconvenience anyone.  

By now, the young guy driving the garden tractor that pulls the kiddie barrel cars strains his neck to look our way.  Thankfully, there are no kids waiting to ride the train or parents lolling about. It’s only the driver gawking. I smile and wave, then make a big display of getting the diaper changing pad out of the diaper bag. He quickly looks away. He owed me a favor for ratting us out of the cornfield last year. 

Next year, if the grand kids want to do the pumpkin patch again, I’ll come with my own options.  Rae could wear pull ups (that might be a meltdown of another kind)  She could wear a long, pleated skirt. If she has to go, we’re walking behind the port-a-potty. There she’ll squat as I spread the skirt all around her and we’ll pretend to look at an incredibly cool caterpillar crawling on the ground.  If a long, pleated skirt, sized 4, can't be found, there’s always my beach sarong. 

Come to think of it, I'm signed up for a pilgrimage in two years.  A three day walk through French fields and woods.   No bathrooms or port-a-potties available there either.  I just might want to start looking for an extra wide, pleated skirt for myself.

 Cheers! 

Sharon