Heather's Great Port-a-Potty Adventure reminded me of something I hadn't thought of in years.
Twig was about 3 when Bug was playing T-ball. The local field had a plumbing problem that year and brought in P-O-Ps to... ummm.. relieve the problem. Half way through Bug's game, Twig HAAAAAAD to go NOOOOWWWW!!!! The smell hit us before we ever opened the door. I tried to talk him into just going behind the bushes, but NOOO.
Once inside I realized that the quarters were way too tight for me to be able to help him get his pants off and back on. The only easy way was to leave the door open. Twig, however, even at the tender age of 3, was a modest little guy and would have no part of pulling his pants down in front of the whole world. After a couple minutes of him screaming, "Noooo Mooommyyy!! Cwose it! Cwose it!" I gave up and squeezed in beside him.
We had just managed to get his britches off when he realized that this was no ordinary potty. When he saw the bottomless pit over which he was expected to dangle his exposed derriere he began grabbing at me like some wild baboon trying to keep from falling out of a tree. He was sure he was about to fall in and never get out again. It was about then that I heard the keys hit the hard plastic surface. All I had time for was a quick shriek before they slid over the edge and vanished into the murky depths of port-o-potty hell, taking my stomach with them. Hubby was out of town and that keyring held the only set of keys I had to both the house and the truck.
I immediately grabbed Twig, forgetting that his pants were still down around his ankles, and hightailed it, with a screaming child tucked under my arm, for the concession stand. The whole way there I kept praying that there was something I could use to fish out the keys. All they had was a wire coat hanger that, as it turned out, wasn't long enough to reach the bottom of the muck. One of the dads came up with a ball of twine out of his tool box. And thus was invented a new Saturday-evening-at-the-ball park event: Port-o-Potty fishing.
For the next 2 or so hours every man within a 1/2 mile radius had to try his hand at port-o-potty fishing. Each just knew that if you hooked your wrist this way, or held your mouth that way, or dragged the string the other way, that he could land his prey. We never did get the keys back, and you do NOT want to know what all else was hooked!
I'd love to be around a thousand years from now when some archaeologist happens on that particular ... er... dump sight and finds a set of keys to a 1985 Ford F150 embedded in the remains. I wonder what weird conclusions they'll draw about the eating habits of the human inhabitants of that region. If you don't think that's ever gonna happen, go check out this article. It may just make you take a little bit closer look at the funny looking rock you pull out of the ground the next time you are out gardening.
And, not to worry you or anything, but beware the next time you enter a portable public facility. You may get this surprise on the way out:
Love, Blessings and Port-o-Peace to you all.