You know what the dark underbelly of potty training is? Constant trips to the can. Seriously. The kid is so enamored of the process that he’s convinced he has to pee every 20 minutes. We’re inclined to humor him during this crucial transitional period, so we alternate chaperoning him while he washes his hands, strips, piddles, slams the seat, flushes, forgets to pull his pants up, and waddles back to the sink. It was charming the first 3,000 times. Then, not so much.
The airplane toilet was a little too high for him, so I had to give him a hoist. In doing so, my clip-on shades, which were hooked in the neck of my T-shirt, fell into the bowl and rightdown the spout. After Robert peed on them (like I had a choice), I thrust my hand down into the tiny aperture and barely grazed them with my middle finger. They’re still there! Alive! They haven’t yet been formed into a bluish gel-cube and dumped into a Pennsyltucky sorghum field!
My little squirrel brain sprang into action, thinking of ways to fish them out. A wire coat hanger. A plastic fork. Maybe my wife’s knitting needl—
A devout completist, Robert pushed the button I had ironically just taught him to use and effectively put the whole sad business behind us. And I spent the rest of the day seething and squinting.