Little Squirt

Before being a mom, I was warned of the threat of a little baby boy showering me with urine whilst diaper changing. As a mom, I have successfully mastered the open dirty diaper- insert clean diaper within milliseconds routine.


What nobody warned me about was that girls are just as good at squirting you. Even once potty-trained. More than once, have I been generously soaked by a dainty daughter.


The latest, I think takes the cake. We were at Target the other day and Emma told me of her urge to eliminate. And as Murphy's Law would have it, we were at the absolute back of the store. We made our way up to the restroom and found the first available stall.


Now, I was raised by a nurse who instilled in me a fear of public restrooms. Never would I dream of touching a toilet seat, let a lone sitting my behind, or that of my child on one. Straddling or lining the seat with toilet paper are acceptable alternatives. But in the case of a wee one who has not yet mastered the feat, the routine goes something like this: Warn the child that if she touches anything in the bathroom she will need to be decontaminated. Pull down her pants and grab behind her knees. Hover her over the toilet as she does her business. Try not to drop her into the germ infested bowl as you try to maintain balance and keep from leaning your own legs on the john. If she says she needs to go #2, tell her to hold it until you get home or else your back will surely break.


So as I performed this acrobatic routine I have long ago mastered, I failed to take into consideration one thing: my new purse. I recently purchased an amazing Mary Poppins purse that can hold treasures beyond belief (just ask Mindy.) But the one thing this purse lacks is a shoulder strap. Typically as I perform this stunt of toilet hovering, I have my purse slung neatly over my shoulder. But this day, as I lowered my little princess's pants, my purse rested nicely on my wrist. As I lifted her above the toilet, I realized the inevitable. But it was too late. The yellow waste from her bladder was contained no more. And my purse was in the way. As the stream of pee landed on my purse, it shot in fifty directions as if light through a prism. The contents of her bladder showered the stall, the toilet, my purse and my shoes. At least her pants were still dry. I cleaned up the stall and toilet the best I could (it is times like these that make me realize exactly WHY you never touch anything in the bathroom.) I convinced myself it was OK that my purse and shoes were soaked because, after all, urine is sterile (or so I was once told.)