He hadn’t peed all morning, though, so I knew it was in there. We had a long drive to make that morning, and there were two options. He would either empty his bladder here in the toilet, “like a Big Boy,” I told him.
Or, strapped-in and a little too comfortable, he’d “open the gate” and unleash a flood of urine into his Spiderman undies, his pants, and the nether regions of the car seat for me to clean late at night like so many crumbs and vomit drippings that came before it.
So, I forced the bathroom door shut, took a seat on the floor inside, and waited for him to attack.
He stomped and clawed, pulling with all his weight at the doorknob. I braced my leg against the wall, closed my eyes, and tried to quiet my mind. But instead, all I could think about was Koe Wetzel.
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