The Great West Tennessee Urinary Incident

Did I mention that I am a secret stay-at-home dad? No one mentions my affliction. It’s like a hemorrhoid. As if going against the grain of a good thousand years of gender roles is to be suffered silently…hoping it won’t get so bad you have to go to the doctor, get in the stirrups and bare all. I am quite comfortable calling myself a stay-at home-dad. To the more traditional influences in my life, though, I am “looking into getting my Texas law license.” But maybe I am saying this all because there is a little voice somewhere inside me that is judging myself for not working outside the home — a voice that is just as biased as anyone else when it comes to gender stereotypes. If I am completely honest, I am flailing through space. Broken-masted in uncharted waters. Paddling my boat with a spoon. Pole vaulting with a toothpick. You get the picture.

I could say something sappy right now, about how Harlan, my 5-year-old son, smiled at me with his entire face, his entire being, when I put him to bed last night. About how Cerys, my 3-year-old daughter, held onto my neck when I took her sleepy self out of her car seat the other night and how, years before I ever thought of having kids, I imagined this very scenario — before I conjured this little goddess in store-bought fairy wings. But you’d probably stop reading.

So let me tell you a different story — one about road tripping with a 3-year-old and a 5-year-old. And about really having to pee.

I decided to drive to Ohio to be with our families for Christmas. My wife was working a lot of hours in her new job. The kids and I had plenty of time. What better idea than a road trip? From Austin, Texas to southern Ohio, it was about a 17-hour drive — easily divided into two days.

Very late into the first day of driving — I mean, it does take forever just to get out of Texas — I realized I had to pee somewhere around Little Rock. But the kids were sleeping so peacefully. I couldn’t leave them in the car. Surely it wouldn’t take too long to drive to the next city and maybe they’d be awake by then.

If you’ve driving through Arkansas, the “next city” is an illusory term. It was night time. I was listening to an audiobook on the early Texas settlers (insane) and the Apaches (also insane and rightfully distraught at the presence of the insane settlers). I could have stopped beside the road. But there was no berm for several hundred miles because Arkansas’s road construction never ends. And it was scary out there in the dark. I don’t think I even saw a light for hours. And the potholes. Arkansas potholes are bladder-jarring, craterous monstrosities. It felt like we were dropping entire wheels. About four hours after I realized I had to pee, we finally hit Memphis. It is a beautiful sight, by the way, driving across the Mississippi toward Memphis at night — especially after all that Arkansas darkness.

The kids were still angelic in their sleep. But this had to stop. I was hitting panic stage. It was still rush hour. I had to find a gas station. I woke the kids. I turned up some metal (The Sword) very loudly. I opened their windows to let the cold air in. I whistled Camptown Races like I was crazed. We pulled into the first gas station I could find, which happened to be all the way through Memphis on the road to Nashville. It was also the busiest gas station in west Tennessee. I jumped out of the car.

My kids, you see, don’t often appreciate the immediacy of the moment. Cerys insisted I let her unbuckle herself from her car seat, turning a couple second task into at least a 5-minute ordeal while she was testing out her newly-acquired motor skills. Harlan decided he didn’t want to put his socks on. Of course, both their shoes and socks had been tossed into every corner of the car. What is it about kids taking their shoes and socks off the minute they enter a vehicle?

Hopping at this point, I could wait no longer. I, a 44-year-old adult with no known prostate, bladder or bedwetting problems, found myself involuntarily urinating in a crowded parking lot. No choice, I had to do so properly. Frantic, I unzipped and let go. In public. As I tried to hide between the open doors of the car, I looked around hoping I wouldn’t be arrested only to see my son standing three feet from me, peeing the proudest arc you’ve ever seen on the sidewalk as an older couple made their way past him.

This is not pretty. I know. I have a lot to learn. I am not a perfect parent. We slept well that night, floating away to the discursive sounds of Paw Patrol in a La Quinta Inn with a very questionable elevator on the outskirts of Memphis. We made it this far without getting arrested. I think there is hope.