It was a parent’s worst nightmare. My son, my sweet baby, held up on display for all to see.
He stood on a block before an unruly crowd. Every move he made broadcast his blatant disregard of his mother’s teachings, his refusal to conform to even the most elementary rules of human conduct.
“My God!” I cried, turning to my husband. “I asked you to make him go BEFORE the swim meet!”
It should be such a simple thing to comprehend: if you have to go, use the bathroom. Then you won’t have to go anymore and both of your hands will be free to play.
No matter how many times I explain this basic concept it goes right over their heads.
I try to illustrate my point by making them use the toilet before we leave the house. Heck, if we go to the mailbox I ask them to go to the bathroom first. But they always protest: “I don’t have to!” They could be doing the Dance so fast you can’t see their feet clearly, yet they refuse to admit to any unusual pressure in their lives at that minute.
When they were smaller, it was easier on everyone. I’d lead them to the commode and carefully supervise until they’d emptied themselves to my satisfaction.
They’re older now and being the boys they are, they think I’m invading their privacy if I even put my ear to the door.
“I don’t hear anything,” I shout.
“Mo-o-o-m!” they cry, disgusted.
“I don’t care! You’re not leaving that room until you produce something.”
Otherwise, all they’ll do is lock themselves in the powder room, turn on the water faucet and dance in private, until sufficient time has passed to throw me off the track.
I have to admit: even when I force them to go it isn’t any kind of a guarantee. I’m usually next in line after waiting through the longest checkout on Earth when my kids will suddenly do an about-face and insist that not only do they have to go, they have to go NOW.
That’s when I get to choose between losing my place or forcing other store patrons to use paddles to get back to the parking lot.
Or we’ll be on a nature hike, and the thrill of draining their very own army surplus canteens gives way to the inevitable. But the idea of going behind a tree or a bush is such an anathema to them that they become physically unable to perform the deed.
I never fall for this sudden prudishness. After all, I clean their bathrooms and I know they are quite capable of aiming anywhere other than at a toilet bowl.
Meanwhile, back at the swim meet, my son performed a series of movements that will never make the Tai Chi List of Acceptable Poses.
His elbows chugged back and forth. He lifted one foot high into the air and danced. His arms flailed for balance, then flew around as if he were swinging for invisible piñatas. One hand sneaked down toward his Speedo but popped right back over his head when my evil eye landed on it.
He wiggled his butt, he shook his head, he punched the air with his fists, until finally the whistle blew and he dove into the pool, mercifully putting an end to my misery.
“Well,” said another mother, trying to make me feel better, “maybe his water jet action will shave some seconds off his time.”