Are You Sure About This?

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My husband and I lean against the kitchen counters rewarding ourselves for getting the kids to sleep by savoring small bites of mint chocolate chip ice cream out of glass juice cups. Our kids are young in this scene, and we only have two. They’re two months and a little over two years old. We live in a small condo outside of DC and I’m itching to go visit my family in Ohio. I’ve waited all day for this moment to share my travel idea with Chris.

“I decided to leave at night.”

The thought crossed my mind earlier that day. My daughter, the two-year-old, sleeps through the night. My son, the baby, goes to sleep at the same time, but wakes up a few hours later to nurse.

It will work out perfectly, I tell Chris. We will leave at bedtime, I’ll drive a couple of hours, then stop at our usual place. I’ll feed the baby and get back on the road. They’ll both sleep the rest of the way. I’m familiar with the route and, as a nurse who works nights, I know I’ll stay awake.

Chris shifts his weight, scrapes his spoon up the ribs of the lined glass. He lifts his blue eyes and tilts his head, thinking. I wait. Finally, he says, “Are you sure about this?”

I smile, excitement gurgling up inside me. Of course I’m sure.

Four days later, the kids are in pajamas. My daughter has been potty trained for months now, so she uses the bathroom one last time and I put her in a pull up and double check I have the portable potty tucked into my zebra-print diaper bag. I’d packed up the car by myself during nap time, so now, all my husband and I have with us when we walk to the underground garage is the baby and his carseat, our toddler, and my bag.

Chris kisses each of us goodbye and I wave. I say a prayer for protection and drive west into the end of rush hour traffic and the long setting sun.

Within minutes, the baby is asleep. My daughter, who is usually in bed by now, simply looks out the window, pointing out cars, singing to herself, and, when it gets dark, stares at lights. She’s pleasant. She’s just not, as I expected, sleeping.

Two hours later, according to plan, I exit the highway and drive toward the entrance of the turnpike that will take me through Pennsylvania. But first, I turn on my blinker and take a left at The Gateway, a large building we know well. It houses public restrooms, two fast food joints, an ice cream shop, and a convenience store. The parking lot is nearly empty. For safety reasons, I park under the bright shining lamp post.

My daughter is still awake, pleased to be up with the stars. I unbuckle, hand her a book she’d dropped earlier in the trip, along with another pacifier. The baby is sleeping, but I wake him up.

“C’mere Mister,” I grunt, pulling him up and out, my body contorting backward over the front seat. We settle into each other and out of habit I grab my nursing cover from my diaper bag. This serves me well when a large grey pick-up truck parks right next to us not three minutes later.

“Really?” I ask, trying to cover myself before they notice my breast welcoming them to this fine establishment. They leave their car without giving me a glance, but even under the light, I feel the first prick of unease. What I hadn’t felt earlier, now shivers up my skin. Suddenly, I feel exposed like this with the kids.

The baby nurses and I stay alert, mind and eyes vigilant to all that’s not, but could be, out there. He stays latched long enough for the pick-up people to return—presumably with empty bladders and full stomachs—get in their truck, and leave.

When he’s full, I change his diaper and twist backward again, lifting him without hurting myself to replace him in his seat. My daughter’s been quiet. I presume she kept staring at the passing cars. But when she drops her book, I realize she’s fallen asleep. Relieved, I give my son his pacifier. He’ll be back down in no time.

I take a deep breath. I did it. I give myself a little pat on the back.

But this sense of accomplishment lasts only long enough for my brain to register a zing in my bladder.

No.

No …

No no no no no. I have a sleeping toddler! The baby, he’s—I check my son in the mirror—grrrrr, his eyes are already closed.

Oh God, really?

Ok, I’ll wake them up. It’ll be fine. I’ll walk them into the loud bright building and I’ll pee and maybe I’ll have my daughter go too, and maybe I’ll lose an hour for how long this detour of a pitstop will take, but it’ll be fine. Totally fine.

No.

I can’t.

I won’t wake them up. I won't.

But I’m never going to last four more hours.

I’d come up with a great travel plan. Maybe, I’d thought, a perfect plan. I was concerned enough about staying awake, that I practically rigged in a coffee maker to brew from my phone charger and drank enough to prove it. I had a grocery bag of snacks. I had music. Extra clothing. Pacifiers galore. I timed out their bedtimes and feeding times, but did I ever once consider myself? That I might need to, oh I don’t know, use a bathroom? If I did, I can almost hear myself saying, You’ll be fine, you can hold it for six hours, you’ve done it before.

Oh yes, of course I had. Like when I was 23 and wasn’t functionally incontinent.

But when had I ever before been two months postpartum (with a second baby) and been able to hold even a milliliter of urine for any length of time? Nothing more than a hearty chuckle or a small sneeze could send me in the direction of my underwear drawer.

It hasn’t been more than a minute since I first felt it, but the edges of my scalp start to buzz with anticipation. It’s all I can do to breathe with the stretching and kegeling going on down there. My wrists get sweaty. My heart beats into my shoulders.

Ok. If I stay in the car: worst case scenario? I pee my pants.

If I wake them up and go in? They will probably cry. It’s possible I’ll be able to hold it till I sit down properly in a stall, but sometimes my bladder is like a barn-sour horse—it knows what’s about to happen so it starts to run home. I picture myself with urine dribbling down my legs, walking like I’m in a three legged race with the carseat banging against my leg, lift-carrying a screaming noodle-limp tantruming toddler and collecting all the crap that's falling out of my diaper bag. If we make it through that, it’s possible the kids scream bloody-murder in the car for the next four hours and be cranky for the next two days before I turn around and come right back home.

My throat tightens. My face sours. Water will either spill from my eyes or my undercarriage. I need to act quick. I have two sleeping kids, two-thirds of the trip left, and a topped off bladder.

Then, just like that, as if the Spirit whispers it in my ear and some fairy blows glitter onto my thoughts: You have diapers. And then it all clicks into place like a puzzle. Diapers. A portable potty. Plastic bags. I’m the MacGyver of motherhood.

Time is ticking, no time to think. The bomb will explode. I grab a diaper. No, two. I take a second to appreciate the inane discrepancy between the size of adult diapers we use in the hospital versus these itty-bitty newborn size 1s and I do my best baby pee : adult pee / kilogram estimation, as objectively as if I’m trying to convert how much infants tylenol to give a grownup for a fever.

I stack the two diapers. Put them inside the plastic grocery bag—a safety net, if you will—and smooth it all out nicely before placing the portable potty on top. I raise my rear, thighs bumping up against the steering wheel, and slide the whole jury rigged pee catcher underneath me.

Doing Modified Bridge Pose in the front seat of my sedan, I look around the parking lot—for what? I don’t know. The pee police? I pull down my black velour comfy pants and place my bare tush onto the cool blue plastic potty seat (weight limit: two thirds less than me).