Of cracks and sags and potty dances

So yesterday we made the three-hour long drive down to Pensacola. I, as the only adult, have driven alone with the girls plenty of times. Why have I not found a legal way to sedate them yet? When Reagan was a traveling toddler she would sleep for about two hours at a stretch, which would give me ample amounts of alone time. Something I desire, no require during car rides. That mesmerizing vibration forces my brain into self awareness mode and I just need to have thinking time. I get pretty short and snappy when I haven’t had that time.

Ashlyn just doesn’t need that much sleep and so she’d rather be awake screaming incomprehensibly about some injustice; like her sippy fell to the floor, or I’m singing and could I please stop singing Mommy! Whatever. However, yesterday she actually fell asleep right after we got on the road. I was in driving heaven. This is when Mr. Murphy had to insert his law into my world. Reagan, whose bladder is reminiscent of a camel’s ability to hold water for days at a time, suddenly has to go “really bad Mommy!” “Are you kidding me!?!? I scream say. “We just left swimming lessons where you changed clothes right next to a perfectly good, in-working-order toilet! I know, because I used it!” Her response was to look at me with that “mom, you’re just not getting me, what was I supposed to do” look.

I really wouldn’t have cared that she had to use the restroom, EXCEPT for the fact that Ashlyn was still asleep and if we were to stop the car she would wake up and I couldn’t just leave her in the truck at some gas station if she actually stayed asleep even with the doors locked because both my girls are really cute and I just know someone’s waiting to snatch them from me at any second and contrary to what I might say sometimes I really don’t want them gone from my sight. So I was angry. And Reagan was starting to do the potty dance in her car seat. I was studying the side of the road as we were driving along judging where would be the best place to pull over and make her go on the side of the road. Don’t wrinkle your nose, you know you did that as a kid. Or was that just my family? And I figured if she was humiliated just enough she’d never do this to me again. At that moment the next exit came upon us and I turned onto it. Looking back to let Reagan know relief was in sight what did my eyes behold? Reagan. Asleep. Oh no she di-unt. You know darn well you can’t go to sleep if you have to pee so badly that you’re bouncing around doing the sit-down version of the potty dance.

So I say yell, “REAGAN! Wake up! Do you really have to go to the bathroom?” To which she replied that she indeed did really have to go. My mind still boggles at this. I decided to go ahead and stop even though Ashlyn wasn’t awake yet because the only thing worse than an angry, screaming toddler in the small confines of a vehicle is an angry, screaming seven year old who has peed on herself. I had to wake Ashlyn up to get out of the truck, which almost made me cry. I don’t know when I’ll ever have the gift of her sleeping in the truck again. Needless to say I wasn’t happy and was already breathing in short, puffy breaths when we enter the gas station.

Oh my…what in the world? People still smoke in convenience stores? Apparently in middle of nowhere Alabama the owner/worker of the store still smokes like a chimney. I couldn’t catch a breath, literally and I’m not joking. My breathing was already short and labored and now I feared for my life because there was no clean oxygen to be had. I know my kids’ lungs became instantly grey if not closer to black. And the air wasn’t foggy either, which means the smoker had been smoking in there for days if not years and it was just lingering on everything. That was the quickest pee stop we’ve ever made. It reminds me of a trip I made with one of my friends one time down to one of her family member’s house. Her mom smoked nonstop, and it was cold outside so the car windows stayed rolled up. We thought we were going to die.

Anyway, we get back on the road and I’m just lamenting the fact that I will have no more alone time on this trip. And I was now the proud mother of a broken record. “Where we going?” “Where we going?” “Where we going?” “Where’s Daddy?” “Where’s Aunt Lee?” “Where’s Chuck E. Cheese?”

Now, I must get to the rest of the title. I know you’ve all seen this fad: young man decides that it is cool, if not a little impractical, to wear his pants past his hiney. Yesterday, during the question and answer session we see this guy hobbling along the side of the road. I’m not joking. His walking was literally impeded by the fact that his pants were barely hanging onto his body BELOW his butt. His heehee AND hoohoo would have both been visible save his underwear and the only thing keeping him legal was a belt trying its hardest to keep his pants at an unnatural level. It was ridiculous. Does anyone find this anything other than purely stupid?

Not twenty feet past him was a young lady, probably in her teens or early twenties, trying to balance on a bike, and her crack was facing the road, all 8 inches of it. I’m not joking again. Her muffin top and eight inches of crack were visible for all passers-by to see. I threw up a little bit in my mouth. And I wondered if she and saggy bottoms knew each other. And it made me cry a little bit for the youth of today. And it made me fear a little bit for my geriatric self knowing that these idiots seemingly uneducated loafers, or two just like them, would be in charge of taking care of me. I’m hoping Jesus returns before that though.

That’s enough for now. We made it safely and the rest of the day was spent reveling with family in anticipation of the wedding on Saturday. No cracks or sags or potty dances for the rest of the night.