Not Very Bright

“I need the toily!” Miss7 screamed from the front of the bus. You know, because I was all of three meters away.

We have rules around bathrooms, which I periodically add to.

Firstly, and most importantly, you do not use the loo on our bus unless it’s an emergency. Such as Dad sort of ignored you and drove past the last service station thinking there would be another one just up the road and now we’re at the point where he’s genuinely concerned if you don’t go there will be a big mess for him to clean up.

We’ve had seven of these nail biting moments in six months but I am learning and am very pleased to announce I haven’t needed to dig the mop out of the storage bin in transit yet.

The second rule is if one person needs to go you must pause and consider if your own bladder is in need of emptying.

I really wish more consideration would be given to this point.

Thirdly, you do not go to the public rest rooms without us and definitely not alone. This includes, but is not limited to, McDonalds, BP’s, caravan parks, show grounds and bushes by the side of the road.

“Who needs to go?” I asked, grabbing the bathroom keys from the wall.

I hate bathroom keys. They just give the kids more to squabble about, and we need that in the bus like we need megaphones.

Naturally, no one wanted to go. Which meant, as an extension of rule number three I had to take her to the men’s toilets with me.

“I want to unlock the door,” Miss7 demanded, holding her hand out. This was followed moments later by the inevitable, “I can’t get the key out.”

Doors are hard. Apparently.

I wrestled it out and we went in, choosing a cubicle each.

“When I finish,” Miss7 said to me from a few doors down, “can I go back to the bus?”

As we were parked less than five meters from the building, and as I had an inkling I was going be sitting there for a while contemplating life, the universe and everything, I agreed. Besides, it’s hard to focus on the larger philosophical issues when you’re being questioned about Pokemon or Barbie every ten seconds.

A few minutes later there was a flush and the bang of a door, then some splashing at the sink. Unusually, based on my previous experience with listening from behind cubicle doors, this was followed by the sound of running and giggling and a door being opened, and then…

…everything went black.

“Hello?” I called out, just as the door slammed shut. “Hello?!”

Which means rule number four is now firmly in place.

You do not turn the light off and lock your father in the bathrooms at night, leaving him to fumble for the paper and, more worryingly, not know if he’s done enough paperwork to be able to leave the office.

We’re back in Gympie now, parked in front of Tracey’s folk’s house. So the dunny rules have been suspended. Except number four.

Raising a family on little more than laughs

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