Good morning! And can I just say, “Holy Monkey hairs mucking up the candy dish!” There is NOTHING in this world to clue you in to the fact that Life has a sense of humor like Lamaze-style breathing in an attempt to “hold your mud.” (My Grandma always had the most AWESOME way of phrasing things!)
We set our scene in a white, Ford Explorer parked outside of a Circle K Gas Station in the middle of Anywhere, USA. Our time is ten minutes to 6:00 in the morning.
Our heroine is awaiting the arrival of her oldest son who happens to be working 3rd shift this day. He also just happens to have blown a radiator hose upon his arrival the night before. Thus, our long suffering Mother has lovingly agreed to pick the radiator-cursed son up at the end of his shift.
Ah, there she sits, blithely playing on Facebook with her phone, whiling away the chilly, dark minutes. But wait! What’s this? Why the sudden look of shock, confusion, and the beginning stages of panic on her face that had appeared so serene and happy only moments before?
Could it be…No! It isn’t…YES! It’s the attack of the Bowels!
See her glance down and around, assessing the fact that like a moron, she donned yesterday’s jammie pants, a holey hoodie, and a ball cap in her early morning haste. See her calculate her own smell-o-rama rating and remember she hasn’t yet showered on this until-now fine day. Watch as the fact that she is indeed panty-less dawns across her already worry-wrinkled face.
Now observe the look of horror and frustration as she notes the morning pre-work rush as hundreds, nay THOUSANDS! of customers stream through the doors of the fated Circle K! There is no way in heck-y she dares to step one single tennis shoe clad foot out of her vehicle for fear of someone offering her money whilst thinking she’s homeless, or worse…someone smelling her artfully cultivated BO.
Hark! What light through station door breaks? It’s the Boy! Yes, sweet freedom to rush to her home base before her base becomes squishy! Her toe is tapping impatiently as she tries NOT to bounce in her seat with certain knowledge of what her “seat” might release. The cold sweat is gang-style gathering on her brow like tweens at a Twilight opening.
Our clammy heroine already has the car backing out of her parking space as her son jumps/throws himself into the moving passenger seat. The son instinctively knows something is amiss, but is loath to disturb the look of intense concentration on his Mother’s face.
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| Someone should SO invent this! |
This is the point of almost-no-return when our now freaking-out heroine begins the Lamaze breathing. “Hoo, hoo, ha! Hoo hoo ha!” In her mind it makes perfect sense. If it was once the right thing to do to facilitates proper contraction/push control for the Mommy chute, then it just might work for…”other”...chutes as well! With toes and fingers crossed, she silently prays to the Gastro Gods, begging their assistance for a dry return home.
The poor, carless son is also praying. Not that the lad is overly concerned for his Mother’s day-old jammie pants, but more for the fact that, due to circumstances beyond his control, he’s at this very moment trapped with her in an enclosed, heated space with all windows in the full-up position.
He fights his imagination in an attempt to block out thoughts of the aroma d’stank that could rival her already profuse BO if they hit a pot hole or a stretch of slowed traffic. He's not quite sure, but is leaning towards a belief that the heater would most likely work like a Pot-Pori censor, gently diffusing the funk throughout the vehicle filling every corner with its unpleasant glow.
Another turn and there, rising just over the hill, the warm welcoming glow of triumph awaits. Their house. Their home. Their BATHROOM! One last turn into the driveway and our heroine has vaulted from her seat of captivity and its frightening possibilities even before the Explorer is fully in park.
You have never in your life seen a woman with a pronounced limp move so fast and fleet up a flight of stairs as she! Around the corner, down the hall, and…do you hear it? Do you hear the exulting, adoring Chorus of Thanks and Praise being played to the Gastro Gods on the most happy of tushy-trumpets? A rose by any other name...would smell NOTHING like this!
And this? Would be why I told my son that next time…he can walk home!
