We didn’t need that bucket anyway.

In mid-September, Jack tagged along to Rachel and Eve’s soccer practice. We managed to finagle getting them both on the same team and now instead of practices every single day of the week and two games each Saturday, we’ve consolidated it down to two practices and a single game.

All my ducks in a row.

The first practice I got to sit and enjoy an hour and a half on a cool fall evening chatting it up with the other parents while the girls kicked the ball around.

So when I brought Jack to the following practice, I had high hopes of lounging in my camping chair once again, shooting the breeze, while he happily played on the playground.

Except that’s not how it turned out. At all.

Within fifteen minutes of sitting down, Jack asked to go to the bathroom. It was number two. We were at an elementary school. That was closed. Closest bathroom was a 5 minute drive to the grocery store. So that’s where we headed.

I rushed into the store, carrying him all the while and made a beeline for the restroom at the back. Lucky for me, I chose the aisle housing the diapers and wipes, grabbing a package of the latter on the way.

We cleaned him up, discarding his soiled underpants, purchased the opened package of wipes, and headed back to the playground.

Fifteen minutes later, Jack informed me that he had to go to the bathroom again. Number two. Again. With his pair of underwear now missing, I knew we had not the time to run to use the grocery store restroom again.

So we did the next best thing. I pulled a sand bucket that, by some luck we were still storing in the trunk for our numerous trips to the lake and asked him if he would like to use it as a makeshift toilet. He did not even hesitate.

I took a picture, which I refrain to share because, while I don’t think Jack will mind that I blogged about this age-appropriate experience in his life when he reads it years in the future, he might resent my posting visual proof of the encounter.

It’s pretty cute, I do have to say, though.

I tossed the bucket and its contents in a nearby dumpster and we headed back to the playground.

Fifteen minutes later. (You can guess what I’m going to say). He has to go AGAIN! How backed up WAS this kid anyway! He non-chalantly asks to use the bucket. To which I inform him that I chucked it and start pulling my hair out at my limited options.

We go back to the car, I open the hatchback, dig through the trunk, and grab a grocery sack of all things to store his third bowel movement in an hour. Man, I was grateful I’d bought those wipes.

Within minutes the girls returned to the car from their soccer practice. Jack had very little of the anticipated playground time under his belt and I sustained more trauma than I had anticipated for a beautiful September evening.

The frozen yogurt run I’d promised the girls was abruptly canceled in favor of a hurried and stinky drive back home to avoid yet another blowout.

After seventeen years of this, you’d think this would be a walk in the park. In fact, the blog posts from when my girls were this age are replete with this sort of anecdote.

To the contrary, after seventeen years of potty accidents and outings gone wrong, I’m so over it. Cute as Jack is, I’m counting down the days until stuff like this is a distant memory.