Family

Today we took my oldest daughter to Urgent Care for pink eye. (She actually didn’t have pink eye, but it sure looked like it, and we didn’t want her to miss a day of school)

On the way home, Donna and our oldest were discussing the odd accent the Urgent Care doctor had. His name sounded Latino, but his accent almost sounded European. As Donna and I considered a Portuguese or other South American possibility, from the back seat, our 6 year old piped up. She said in the thickest, cheesiest, most “I can’t believe a 6 year old said that,” accent:

“Maybeee he was Frrrrench.”

I laughed so hard I almost had to pull the car over. As a bonus, for the next few hours my entire family spoke with fake French accents. For some reason, mine came out as a woman’s voice. I’ll pretend it was on purpose.

All 3 of our kids are in public schools this year, which is a really big deal, because we’ve been homeschooling for a long time. So far, it’s been going well. It helps that I work at the school, and Donna substitutes as an aide. In fact, today Donna told me a hilarious story about our youngest, Lizzie. Donna was in the lunch room with the special needs student she was assigned to, and Lizzie ran over to her in a panic. Here’s how it went down:

Lizzie said, “Mommy! Mommy! I couldn’t get my blue slushie open, so Sammie helped me. It was really hard to get open, and when she opened it it spilled all over her and me and the table. It’s a real mess. I’m sorry Mommy!” (all in one breath, mind you)

Donna said, “It’s OK sweety. Let’s go clean it up. Sometimes those Kool-Aid bottles can be hard to open. It must have gotten pretty cold to turn your Kool-Aid into a slushie, huh?”

“No, Mommy, not my drink. The blue slushie in the bag. I couldn’t get it open, so Sammie helped me.”

“Honey, we didn’t pack you a slushie. What bag are you talking about?”

“Mommy, the bag with the blue slushie inside. In my lunch bag. The slushie!”

Donna realized what happened, and after a moment of horror and panic replied, “Sweetheart, that wasn’t a slushie. That was the cold pack to keep your lunch cold…”

Yes, we’re thankful for non-toxic cold packs. Donna called Sammie’s parents to explain the “blue slushie” that was all over her shirt and pants. Unfortunately, Lizzie will now be eating a PBJ tomorrow. 🙂

This week and next are insanely busy for me, so you’ll have to forgive my sparse posting.

As you probably know, last week we went camping. It was a great week, but one of the things you notice more when you’re away is how often you go to the restroom. I’m actually on a blood pressure medicine that causes me to be quite the tinkle fairy. I go at least once every 90 minutes. It’s pathetic. I’m also one of the few men in the planet that washes their hands when they use the toilet, and the tired old electric hand dryer made for a lengthy potty time. (That thing took FOREVER to dry hands, half the time I just wiped my hands on my pants after washing them…)

This post is not about the hand dryer though. That irritation is nothing compared to one old man in the urinal next to me.

First of all, all men understand the basic public restroom etiquette. It’s instilled into us genetically. There should never have been an old man in the urinal next to me.

The problem started while I was doing my business. The offending old person clearly knew I was there. I’m a 6 foot tall 190 pound man. I was wearing a bright orange SpongeBob t-shirt. I’m hard to miss. Well, I thought I was hard to miss…

This man rushes to the urinal right next to me, and begins making “I have to pee really bad” noises. This violates several men’s room rules by itself, but the old man begins to haphazardly urinate wildly about his urinal space, and actually begins to SPLASH MY LEGS with his own piddle!!!

I had no idea what to do. I scooched over as far as possible, and hurried as best I could. When splashy splasherton was finally finished, I just stood there in shock. In retrospect, I still don’t know how I could have made the situation any better. I mean, I couldn’t even kill the man, because that would have brought attention to my motive: Wet leg.

The only good news is that campground restrooms have showers built into them. I walked directly from the urinal to the shower (grabbing some hand soap from the dispenser along the way), and proceeded to shower my legs.

Eiw.

One of the joys of camping in a state park, is that everyone uses community showers. (No, not like that…) The park we stayed at only had 3 showers for the entire park. There are well over 100 campsites, and camping creates lots of reasons to bathe.

Every morning, as I walked to the restrooms, I’d see people waiting outside the showers for their turn. Many were like me, pondering the shower to camper ratio, but a few were mortified at the presence of others. Most noticeable were the ladies in their 20s. No, I wasn’t cruising the campground bathrooms for chicks, they were noticeable because they so desperately didn’t want to be seen before they showered and “prepped.” The irony is that the utter horror on their faces made them stick out like a sore thumb!

I considered taking a photo, just to post it here — but I thought I might actually cause some young woman to implode out of mortified embarrassment. It seemed a bit cruel for vacation, so I refrained. Plus, I didn’t want to be the guy taking photos of women at the community showers. I mean, I don’t want to be that guy. Eiw.