Honey Bucket

Stephanie from Where In the World Am I is hosting this week's State Department Blog Roundup. This week's "optional talking point" is overseas/international bathrooms. I have nothing to say about that, since we have yet to be posted overseas. I do have a bathroom story, though. And it ain't pretty.

Let me start out by acknowledging that I am a germaphobe (I know this is no surprise to anyone who has ever met me). I always carry hand santizer, try to never touch railings or door handles in public places, and turn water off/on in public bathrooms with a paper towel. I know! I'm going to be awesome in a developing country. Anyway, my story takes place on a ratty old baseball field on Whidbey Island. Mitch was coaching Henry's t-ball team and I was there cheering them on with my then-four year-old girls. Now, whenever we go anywhere, I make sure everyone uses the bathroom at home before we leave to minimize the possibility that we'll have to enter a public restroom. I am aware that this is a ridiculous fantasy when dealing with children. Grace started whining that she really, really had to go potty. I looked around the only thing I saw was a dirty old Honey Bucket.

We were only a five minute drive from home, so I tried to convince Grace that she could hold it and I would zip her home in the car to pee in the comfort of her own bathroom, but no, she had to go. Now.  So, after a stern lecture outside the Honey Bucket instructing the girls NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING, we slipped inside. Olivia was hiding behind my legs while I was held Grace up so her skin wouldn't come in contact with anything. The tension inside that box was crackling. The girls could sense this was a Serious Event and were appropriately solemn. As Grace finished her business, I slipped a bottle of hand sanitizer out of my pocket and handed it behind me, not daring to take my eyes off Grace lest she fall in or touch something. "Clean your hands really well, Olivia." I said. I kept waiting for her to take the bottle, but she didn't. Finally, I turned around to see what the deal was. There was my daughter, rubbing a dirty urinal cake (which happened to look just like a bar of soap) all over her hands and arms, making sure to do a really good job.  And then I died.

Sparkle.

So, after I recovered from my Man Cold I picked up whatever the kids had, unless it's the same, really long crud and it just comes in waves. Alas, there's no laying around in my heavenly bed for me, because three things have been in my way for the past 48 hours:

Somehow I have to figure out how to get to the library (25 cents a book per day! 18 books overdue!) and dry cleaners today.  Mitch is out of shirts, and the only thing I hate more than ironing is glitter.  Speaking of glitter, I would really like to thank Aimee and Christi for the gift that arrived in my mailbox yesterday. These lovely ladies work at my kids' previous elementary school, where, apparently my love of shoes and hand sanitizer was as well known as my hatred of glitter.

It was this:


I Love Shoes hand sanitizer filled with glitter

 Wrapped with this:

The picture doesn't show the amount of glitter than spilled out when I opened the envelope, but the painting by Christi's daughter is a masterpiece. When my kids would come home from preschool with stuff like that we'd go in the house through the garage and I'd tell them I was just going to put their projects into a special box to keep forever, but really I put them in a plastic garbage bag and stuck them into the trash. Mother of the Year!