Motherhussy

Tolerate THIS!

Okay, I admit it—I’m a lazy mother. The boys returned from Utah August 2nd and not even a month later I want to ship them back to the ranch. Most normal mothers (mothers without ex-husbands, the poor things) don’t EVER get month long breaks from their children. I should be happy. I should feel refreshed. I don’t. Right now, as I type, I’m actually sitting in an uninspired stew of sweatpants and body odor. BECAUSE I DON’T FEEL LIKE SHOWERING!!! That’s why. They have sucked the life out of me, at least this afternoon they have so I’m protesting. We’re not doing anything fun today—because I’m a bad mother.

Well, I’m not that bad I guess. At least I did shove some education and experience down their throats the other day in the form of the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles. I’ve wanted to visit the Museum ever since I saw the signs for it on our way to Santa Monica. I would always think to myself, “The Museum of Tolerance, now that is a place where a cool, hip mother would take her kids.” By damnit, I’m a cool hip mother, and I just adore the idea of tolerance, so I took my kids there. Little did I know that it was going to be I who needed the lesson in tolerance—not the boys.

We left the house around noon, and for any of you who have driven the freeways in LA you would know that noon is not a good time to be on the freeway. However, I’m not a local, and I was desperate and on an adventure kick. So there we were, stuck in the noontime traffic when the inevitable hit--

“Mom, I need to go to the bathroom,” I heard from the backseat. It was Colton; apparently the Sprite with his Happy Meal had gone through him in a matter of minutes and now his little bladder was begging for reprieve. Reprieve from the pain of a bladder full of bubbly beverage.

“Colt, we’re on the freeway. There obviously isn’t anywhere I can pull over unless you are ready to die young, which I don’t think you are—you don’t even own a PSP yet. You’re going to need to hold it.”

“Okay, I’ll try,” was his brave little response.

It took us about 20 minutes, which felt like a millennium, before we actually got off of the 110 and onto the 10. While on the 10, Colton actually got desperate enough to ask if he could pee in a cup in the backseat.

“Colton, I don’t think it would be a good idea to pee in a cup that has a lid and a straw,” I counseled. In my head I did the math:

Happy Meal Cup Full of Warm Pee + Two Restless 8-Year Olds + Long Drive = DISASTER!

Yes, I stood by my decision—he would have to wait until we were all the way off the freeway. No Cup O’ Pee for me.

When we finally made it off of the 10, we were dumped into the heart of the city. Okay, I thought, there should be a cornucopia of restrooms around here. Little did I know, a restroom cornucopia was not to be.

First stop: 7-11. I rush Colton through the doors into the air-conditioned, fully stocked 7-11. Several hobos are milling about, looking shady and questionable—your typical convenience store. I look around feverishly for the little restroom sign. No restroom sign. NO RESTROOM SIGN! Before panicking, I approach the woman behind the counter, a young acne riddled Indian woman.

“Can he use your restroom?”

“No. No public restroom,” was the stony response.

“Please, he’ll be quick.”

“No. No public restroom.”

Apparently the third eye on the bitch’s head did not give her enlightenment to the critical situation my son’s bladder was in.

“F*@! you then,” I mumbled under my breath. Yes, I’m ashamed to admit it, I told a 7-11 clerk to “eff off.” If you were me you would have too. If I had known which car was hers in the parking lot, I would have had Colton pee on it too. (Heaven help me if my children ever read this post—like I said earlier, I AM A BAD MOMMY!)

Next stop, The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf—now here was a place that was sure to have a restroom. I mean, have you ever drank coffee or tea and not had the urge to urinate ten seconds later? Have you? I didn’t think so. Unfortunately my restroom radar had been wrong again. Scrawled in coffee-jittered handwriting was a sign on the restroom door that read,

restroom OuT of Order

So close, yet so far away. Much to my luck though, the nice barista behind the counter tuned in to my pending bladder disaster and told me Office Depot next door had public restrooms. Bless you barista! May your days be filled with happiness and the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed expensive java!

Out of the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, and into Office Depot. Quickly, we weaved our way through the maze of pens, pencils, and three ring binders to the Mecca called the “Mens Room.” Colton was a new boy seconds later, and we could continue our trek towards tolerance.

Once we got to the museum the boys were subdued for a good two hours. Nothing like mass graves and baby killings to quiet restless children. Although it was a wonderful experience for the boys, and it taught them how to “tolerate” one another—I did leave feeling a little guilty. For some reason, the majority of the time they ran reels on hate crimes and intolerance, the main perpetrators were white—that and the fact that I was the only blonde-haired blue-eyed person in the tour group. Can you say “Über Race”? I would have been prime pickings for Hitler’s New Germany. Well, except for the fact that I’m American. Huh, maybe I would have been gassed too. Who knows? My point is, weeeelllll, I don’t really know what my point is. However, I did gain a little tolerance myself. Maybe the next time a bitchy foreign 7-11 employee denies restroom access to one of my offspring, instead of telling her to “f-off” I will only think it in my head.

One small step for Charise, one giant leap towards world-wide tolerance.

posted by Anonymous @ 4:01 PM