Bad Bathroom

In early October, I flew to Seattle from Cleveland. The long flight went well. Still, one toddler’s first airline adventure stays with me.

From my aisle seat at the back, across from the three bathrooms, I witnessed the calamity of his lifetime’s two-ish years.

He followed his mother down the aisle, and they stopped beside me, waiting for one of the bathrooms to open. Three loud flushes happened in close succession, with a large, unsmiling man emerging from each stall. CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! The doors snapped shut. Like determined soldiers, they closed rank in the narrow lane and returned to their rows.

Wide-eyed, the boy stepped backward. His mother caught him with one hand and opened a bathroom door with the other, scooting him forward into pitch darkness.

“NO!” he said and grabbed onto the door frame. She could not budge him. “NO!” he repeated, as she explained the light would come on once they were locked inside. “NO!”

A flight attendant rushed forward, shining her flashlight into the stall. Although she meant well, I could see the light caught the dark interior of the toilet and the red warning on its lid. The monstrous black hole had just flushed up three giants. What would it do to a little boy?

The battle was joined.

No snack packets moved him nor could assurances from the uniformed woman (still brandishing her light saber) nor could his mother’s pleas.

“NO!” he said, flailing away.

Finally free, he turned around, clenched his fists, and announced, “Bad bathroom! Bad bathroom! Bad bathroom!” the whole way to his seat. The small warrior believed he’d seen an enemy and defeated it. What he hadn’t seen were the two people trying to help him.

I know all about that.

My presence on this long flight paralleled his bathroom battle.

I am a resistant traveler, overwhelmed by my What if? worries, worries based on my vague-at-best fears. This trip should have been an easy choice because it celebrated the publisher’s launch of my picture book, Library Girl. Plenty of applause and appreciation. An entirely good event, right?

Nope.

I manufactured reasons to skip it, based on costs, time, nervousness, not to mention the monstrous unknowns. In other words, I spent days flushing up giants. Cliff listened patiently and never commented. Noting his silence, I sat beside him and asked, “Can you say something wise?”

“I can, “ he said. “If you don’t do this, Karen, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. I know you.”

I stopped flailing, unclenched my fists, and quit announcing, “Bad bathroom.”

I booked the flight. I believed the helper.

In time, the little boy will, too.