When I used to think about shit in a bag, I would envision some evil teen schoolmate running away from a hated neighbor’s door, with the bag engulfed in flames on the door mat.  Obvious signs of boredom in the sleepy desert town that I grew up in. 

Now I have a different vision.

My husband and I were driving home from a day of trying to get our five- and six-year old boys proficient in skiing and most of the trip had been shockingly uneventful.

Then as we neared Sacramento, the traffic slowed, expectedly during rush hour and we were sandwiched among the many people trying to get home. Then, arousing me from a daydream about a hot shower and sleep in my own bed, I heard an angelic voice from the second row in the van:

                  “I have to go potty.”

                  “Pee or poo,” I said.

                  “Poo.  I have to go potty.  I have to go potty.”

The increasing urgency of pitch in his voice was not a good sign.  It had been just one hour prior that we had to make a specific stop in the middle of nowhere to do just that.  I had given quick wave to the pizza parlor owner as I hurriedly trounced my pajama-clad boys to the bathroom.

                  “You are standing. Didn’t you say you had to poo?”

                  “No.  I’m all done.”

                  “Are you sure?  Why don’t you try again?”

                  “No,” he said.”

I was catapulted back to the present traffic jam by his clearly less angelic tone.  Like a contractor who had just counted zero from ten on the biggest demolition project of his life:

                  “It’s gonna blow!”

My husband is behind the wheel, howling and saying through choked laughter:

                  “I’m sorry.  I know he’s in pain…”

The considerably more panicked voice from the second row:

“Hurry, hurry. It’s gonna blow.”

Looking around, I see a GPS screen, an umbrella, three empty single-serve chocolate milk containers, a pen and a package of saltines.  Oh Lord, not even a cup from a fast-food break.

My husband says in a MacGyver tone:

“Dump the bag of food and use it.”

Mind you, this is my re-usable eco-friendly near-canvas bag.  I picture removing my shoe as a receptacle and decide all other choices are grim.  The bag it is.

                  “Stand up, unbuckle, get your pants down.”

I am breaking laws that I hadn’t even realized existed and have no idea how I am going to make up for the dichotomy of imploring to my children that they are NEVER to unbuckle their seatbelt in a moving vehicle.

                  “Get over here, bend over and go.”

My husband is trying to move to the side of the road, but nobody is letting our car in.  I am trying to position the bag to not get any waste on me while contorting from the front passenger seat.  I look up at my other son in the seat next to his squatting brother, and see both fingers shoved up his nose.  He says:

“I’d gonna vomid.”

“Don’t you dare!”  from the driver’s seat, still striving for the highway exit, so close in distance but so far away in time.

Wiped and strapped safely back in his seat, the smell permeated the van.  I had to try as hard as I could to not think about the shit in the bag next to my foot.  Someone should have told me years ago that these were job requirements of a mom.  And as for Dad, I made him throw the bag away at the next pizza place when we were finally yet untimely able to exit.

                  “Windows down.  I don’t care if it’s raining.”

 By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

Labels: bathroom, eco-friendly bag, go potty, GPS, Jennifer O'Shaughnessy, MacGyver, poop, re-usable, Sacramento, shit, sons, traffic, vomit

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# posted by Writing Mamas Salon @ 12:01 AM