This past week-end, the family took a road trip to Northern Virginia to visit with friends.  We got a late start leaving the house as the morning was a frenetic mash-up of gymnastics, laundry, and cleaning.  I would much rather put in the work on the front end so the only mess I’ve got when I get home is whatever is in the suitcase. 

Anyway, the trip to NOVA was going along pretty well until we hit Garrionsville on 95.  Then everything just stopped.  I mean there were brake lights as far as the eye could see and no discernible reason as to the cause.  I can’t call our forward movement “rolling along” because that would imply that there was some kind of forward movement.  There wasn’t any.  

Miraculously, all of the girls were quiet and entertained. I had a book and the hubs was behind the wheel, plumes of smoke curling out from his ears as he white knuckled the steering wheel, silently imploring the traffic to just vanish so we could zip up the road.   He and I both had a a sense of déja vu;  four years ago, we were trying to get up to NOVA for an event, this time leaving from Norfolk.  We crept along and crept along before the traffic came to an excruciating halt right around Williamsburg.  It had taken us 2 hours to go exactly 45 miles.  By the time the traffic cleared (if it did at all), we’d have missed the event anyway.  So, we detoured to the ‘burg, showed the girls the campus and had a very enjoyable Plan B. 

Fast forward to the present: things were looking strangely familiar. Rather than sit on that road to nowhere or bust a U-turn and head home, the hubs took the next available exit.  We rolled through towns that literally had one traffic light.  There were more cows lolling on grassy hillocks than there were signs for McDonald’s, Starbucks, or Panera.  Oh the humanity!  

We drove a handful of miles before coming through into civilization and (praise be!) a Super Target.  SUPER TARGET!!  Sweet fancy moses, that thing is ah-may-zing!  To the Target so everyone could have a potty break and a snack break!  The hubs took Vivi to the snack bar for her bottle and I took the girls with me to the ladies room. 

Normally, when we go to a public bathroom, there are enough stalls for each of us to do our business in private.  Unfortunately, we caught the Super Target bathrooms during their hourly cleaning.  The only available bathroom was the family restroom.  No big deal; we use that one all the time. 

The girls and I go in. I take their jackets and my bag and toss it onto the baby changing table.  I remind them to line the seats and to wipe properly.  I’m trying to distract them because I really don’t want them all up in my business.  See, I had some feminine products I need to make use of and I was really too tired to explain the who, what, and why of it all.  

As I palmed a Tampax into my pocket, ol’ eagle eye Co says, “Hey! Mom, what’s that?!”

“What’s what?” I ask, trying to camouflage my little bag of stuff in my coat pocket. 

“That thing! That thing you just pulled out of your sleeve.”

At this point, I’m trying to re-line the seat so I can go, and also trying to re-direct them to the sink so she can wash her hands.  I’m so busy issuing commands (Use soap! Don’t use that much soap! Use the paper towel, not your sweater! Don’t open the door! Don’t you see I’m on the toilet?!), I almost miss Mo enlighten her sister by saying, “I know what those are! Those are tampoons! They’re lady products that come out of the wall.”

And then the two of them proceed to stand next to each other and watch me while I wrangled said “tampoon” from point A to point B, using my coat as a stragically placed lap shield. At the conclusion of that educational experience, they turned to each other like this:

Next time, I’m insisting that the hubs take them in the bathroom with him! I can hear it now: “Mom, did you know they giant Sweet Tarts in the mens wall toilet?!” blechhhh!