I think I'm ready to hit the road. But I'm like Pavlov's Dog. I hear the jingle of keys - even in my own hand - and I've got to go back in the house and make a final pit stop.
I wasn't born this way. There were many times when my parents would instruct my brother and myself before a trip to visit the facilities. I would respond, "I don't have to." And they would counter with "Try."
To a small child, this seemed pointless. I was potty trained after all. I knew when I needed to go and when I didn't. At first I would argue that "I didn't need to go," but they remained firm. So eventually, to appease them, I'd go in the bathroom, close the door, and ask my system to cooperate, to try. To which my body would respond, "Try what? I don't have to." I'd sigh and wash my hands, and my parents probably smiled at the sound of running water, thinking that they had succeeded in training me for long trips.
They hadn't, of course.
I'm not actually sure my parents understood the biology involved. They would give me drinks on the road, and think that I wouldn't need to ever stop because I'd "tried" three or four hours back. As if trying once, made it possible to go the rest of the day without bathroom breaks.
Unfortunately my father liked to take routes through areas where bathrooms didn't exist. This led to my expertise of finding and utilizing "fat trees." And once, when there were only scrawny trees for miles, my father pulled over by a pasture and suggested we squat behind a cow. We decided to hold it.
Follow up:
I became an expert at that as well - holding it. I'd pull the seat belt away from my body and sit up as tall as possible, so that my bladder could expand and fill to full capacity. I pushed images of waterfalls and clear, running streams from my mind. I flowed with the bumps and jerks of potholes. And I learned to walk quickly and straight-legged when a restroom was finally in sight.
But it wasn't without pain and a sick feeling in my stomach.
So my father eventually came up with a plan to free him from stopping and from us having to hold it: a porta-potty. He placed it in the van between our bucket seats and the back bench. Next to it, sat the special, dissolving toilet paper, blue chemicals, and a blanket for coverage.
Although the windows in the back were tinted, it was a disconcerting feeling to be sitting on the commode as my father pulled up to a stoplight. Seeing people left, right, and behind, made it difficult to concentrate on "trying."
As did, bumps in the road and sudden turns. But the portable potty had no seatbelt, only a blanket. So we learned new skills: balancing - and patience as we waited for the van to turn a corner and roll the toilet paper back our way.
I guess we were lucky to have a van with enough space to fit a toilet. Although my brother and I would have preferred a larger proximity between ourselves and those special chemical and natural smells.
But there are trade-offs when it comes to traveling with my parents; and in this case, we traded our discomfort for nausea. I guess, since we were usually nauseas from motion sickness anyway, my parents felt like there was no downside to the porta-potty arrangement. (They were in the front and had no safety locks on their windows after all.)
Years later, when my parents stopped driving vans and returned to smaller, toilet-less cars, I realized I had been trained. I'd "try" at just the sound of the word "trip" and at the sight of an actual restroom whenever one presented itself. I wished to avoid at all costs: fat trees, bushes, cows - and most of all, the discomfort of having none of those available. I had been well-trained.
And now I am the master of my own car (which tows no port-a-john) and my own route (which involves rest areas aplenty).
But still, I hear the whispers "try, try," and I must respond because I never know when I might get stuck in a traffic jam in the middle of nowhere, devoid of fat trees and cows and other privacy providers, the song "Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls" or "I Love a Rainy Night" blaring on the radio of the car next to me, no exits for miles - all after drinking a super-sized cup of iced tea.
Hmmmm.....cup.....let me see if I can find a place to pull over. I sure hope I've got a blanket in the back. Yeah, of course I do. My parents trained me well.
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