When I was a kid, I lived in Northern California near a volcano that was considered active. We’d drive to Mt. Lassen to hike, or to Honey Lake to fish, or to the forestry areas so my dad could cut fire wood—and the scenery from the window was mesmerizing: fields of scrub brush and cinder cones, or forests thick with pine and manzanita. There weren’t rest stops, not to mention gas stations, or even port-a-potties, so my brothers and I learned quickly that part of living far from civilization was giving up certain aspects of civilized life, namely the use of toilets. By contrast, my trips as a kid were all about the lack of civilization. This invariably equated to peeing against a log, or using a leaf as an instrument of hygiene. It was a good day when my mom remembered to bring along toilet paper. This almost never happened, though, and if my brothers and I complained, we’d hear about pioneer days and settler times, and invariably, the conversation would turn to the ill-fated Donner party. The Donner party was the toilet paper equivalent to starving kids in China and eating all your dinner.

My son Ivan would have never survived this. First of all, he wouldn’t have had to because, even though we live in Oregon and spend a decent amount of time outdoors, people have civilized the hell out of this place. If there aren’t permanent bathrooms outright, then there are portable toilets. It doesn’t matter if you’re in the middle of a national forest and surrounded by roosting bald eagles—there will be a bathroom (with decent toilet paper!)—within a 100 yard radius. And even if those two fail, somehow, a gas station will arise in the misty dark.

But even if there weren’t gas stations dotting every pristine wildlife preserve, my son would have never survived peeing outdoors for one big reason: he’s autistic. To say he dislikes peeing in the wild would be an understatement on par with “sometimes those PETA people get a little verklempt about fur.” He’s particular about bathrooms and toilets and the conditions under which he will empty his bladder. When he was five, he actually held a short, but burning, fascination for all things lavatory-related. He became a lavatory connosier—to the extent that he was able to note that his favorite toilet was “the steel kind with the handle flush.” He even went so far as to request, and receive, a Playmobile port-a-potty set for his birthday one year, though his fascination never extended to him willingly using one of these.

Ivan’s preoccupation meant that he had lists of both favorite and hated bathroom characteristics. He loved big bathrooms, sleek and clean and well-lit, while he was wrecked by anything loud: loud flushing, loud sinks, and anything automatic. The automatic flushers were a nightmare for him—they didn’t allow him absolute control, and they were often horribly loud. When he was young, he screamed whenever one went off anywhere in the bathroom.

Though Ivan doesn’t perseverate on toilets or bathrooms anymore, and though he’s in general obsessed with things all 9-year old boys are obsessed with (like Star Wars and Lego Batman and building booby traps to ensnare his sisters) he’s still quite particular about bathrooms, toilets, and the conditions under which he will relieve himself. Even now I can only get him to use a port-a-potty under the most extreme circumstances, like if his bladder were to be at the brink of explosion. Or maybe if an authentic, robotocized Lego replica of Ewan McGregor as Obi Wan Kenobi were to appear and command him, like God to Moses on Mount Sinai, that Thou Shalt Useth Thy Honey Bucket. That’s what life with an autistic is often like, even with someone like Ivan, who is, in the grand scheme of things, mildly autistic, and who passes as normal most of the time.

It’s something I’ve gotten used to, and it’s been a quirk I’ve been able to work around, even sometimes a charming one. The girls and I joked with Ivan about his toilet logic, and he was good-natured about it all, laughed about it even while he was obsessing over his miniature toilet set in plastic. And, it was something we didn’t have to deal with often because even though we hike and spend time outside, we spend most of our travel time on the 100-mile stretch of I-5 between Eugene and Portland, me running the kids to see their dad. So, there are always civilized bathrooms.

This Friday evening in August, we’re headed down a long, dusky stretch of I-5. The sun sits low in the sky, even though it’s nearly 9:00 pm. In the back, two of my kids are bickering over something, arguing a small point or threatening death or finger amputation. We make this trip bi-weekly between Eugene and Portland, Oregon so the kids can see their dad, so when Ivan pipes up from the back seat and says, “I have to pee,” I’m nonplussed. This never happens at this point in the trip—some 20 miles after Salem and a good 40 minutes from their dad’s. I’m a careful, experienced driving parent. I require evacuation of body cavities before we ever hit the velour of the car seats. And, on the rare occasion that we do need to stop, it’s always before Salem. I don’t even know where we are exactly. I spend this part of the trip yelling at the kids to be quiet while imagining the next two days of childless bliss. I glance in the rear view mirror. Ivan is holding his crotch desperately, and then he repeats “I have to pee.” Only this time, the word “pee” has six syllables, and sounds more like an exotic bird call than a statement on the conditions of his bladder.

The closest exit is for Aurora, a tiny town between Salem and Portland that we hadn’t stopped at often. I know there isn’t much there—you can’t even see the town from the freeway—but it’s our only shot. I have no idea where the next rest stop is, and for all I know, it could be 40 more miles away. I pull off the freeway, Ivan jimmying in the back seat, and making noise. Giselle doesn’t have to go to the bathroom, but she apparently feels the need to mention the consumption of, and sometimes submersion in, water and waterways, including rivers, creeks, and Niagara Falls.

We pull into a 76 station, all light and cement, and Ivan is out and headed straight for the building before I can unbuckle. He runs straight-legged toward the building, hopping almost. That’s when I notice the port-a-potties against one wall of the building. A sign above them reads “Port-a-Potties for Customers Only. No Other Bathrooms.”

“Ivan,” I yell. He’s nearly to the door of the place when I notice that he’s running with his penis already in hand, ready to let loose.

“Ivan—put your penis away!” I shout across the sea of RVs and minivans.

Ivan turns to me, penis still in hand. “Put your penis away!” I shout. By this time, I am jogging across the parking lot. “Ivan, they don’t have bathrooms,” I say, breathless. “They only have those.” I point at the two Honey Buckets, industrial blue and gray. I can already smell them.

Ivan contemplates this option with a desperate look on his face. Over his shoulder, people are staring at us, and I realize it is because I just yelled the word “penis”—twice—across a crowded parking lot, and the receiver of said “penis interjections” still has the offending member in hand. This neither upsets me nor surprises me, which itself comes as a shock in the parking lot—all these people staring at us, and I’m not embarrassed; I’m impatient and tired and little worn out. What I want to do is yell back, “Haven’t you seen a penis before, people? For Chrissakes!” I do not yell this. That would be uncouth, and besides, Ivan is contemplating the port-a-potties while dancing from foot to foot.

“Ivan,” I say. This gets his attention, and immediately he puts his penis away. He walks to one Honey Bucket, opens the door, and then lets it slam. “I…I cannot go in the port-a-potty,” he says. “I will…I will just…I will hold it.” He pauses. “Maybe I will pee in the car,” he offers.

Yeah, and maybe not. I notice the signs for the truck stop then. It’s maybe 100 yards north on a frontage road, all gleaming neon tubes and gas pumps. I get the kids in the car and to the truck stop before I have to use the word “penis” in a sentence again.

I have never been to this truck stop before, in large part because I don’t have occasion to stop in Aurora, Oregon, but also because it’s a truck stop. These kinds of establishments are off-putting to me. They’re foreign almost with the strange assortment of goods and services. In Aurora’s version, there is a low-rent coffee shop—the type of place where you can get liver and onions and a side of Wonder bread—and a giant convenience store, which is probably one of the few places you could buy some Ho-Hos, a packet of aspirin and a new Bowie knife decorated with a Harley Davidson emblem at the same time. There is a Popeye’s Chicken, showers, an arcade, a bank of payphones. And, of course, bathrooms.

We head straight through the convenience store, following the signs, and I remind Ivan, under my breath, to “keep the penis away.” We find the women’s bathroom a little busy with older women hustling in and out, but with 12 clean and bright stalls, it’s an Ivan Miracle of Modern Plumbing if there ever was one. Ivan runs to the closest open stall, and then stops. “Oh no,” he says. “Automatic flushers.”

It was at this precise moment that I, for all intents and purposes, lost my cool. I know Ivan can’t help it. I know he thrives by the routine, the rote. I know he gets over-stimulated, that he experiences sound and noise more intensely than the rest of us, and that, to him, an automatic flusher must sound like an artillery shell. But I also know that we are surrounded by fields of grass seed and sheep. There are no other bathrooms that even compare to this one, lest we drive up to some farm house. It’s a testament to the extent my coping skills—the kinds of skills all us parents of autistics have developed—that I consider doing this, seriously, for 26 seconds. I imagine putting the kids in the car again, driving down the two-lane road, until a house with a light on comes into view. And then I return to reality, where my autistic son, my normal daughter, and I are having an argument about automatic flushers in an otherwise pristine bathroom. “Goddamnit, Ivan!" I say.  "Just go!”

“I do not like the automatic flushers. They are too loud!”

“Gah!” I say. “Just…just get in the handicap stall!” I herd both kids in, latch the door, and then put my hand over the sensor. “Go, Ivan. Just go.”

I close my eyes. It’s nearing 9:00 pm, and we still have another 40 minutes of driving before we make Portland. I am tired, a full week of work and a handful of outside projects have kept me up late every night this week. Already I am imagining the serenity of the drive home, the headlights carving the Willamette Valley, dark and heavy with trees. How I will stop in Salem for coffee, how the halogen lights will pool milky in the empty parking lots as I drive through little towns, how the pockets of lights will quilt the entire trip.

Then I feel something warm on my left foot. Something warm and wet. I open my eyes. There stands Ivan, who this time cannot be accused of holding his penis, because both of his hands are elsewhere. In fact, each one is covering an ear. He is “driving no hands,” or maybe “freestyling it.” He is also peeing on everything in a four-foot radius, which includes my foot.

“Ivan!” I bellow. “Grab your penis!”

“I do not want the sensor to hurt my ears!”

“I am covering the sensor! Grab your penis!”

At this point, the bathroom falls curiously silent.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Ivan says as he finishes, his two hands still over his two ears. I look down at the wreckage. My sandal is soaked, and my foot is wet. There is urine covering the seat and much of the floor surrounding the toilet. But I have managed to save one thing: my hand is still over the sensor, and the toilet hasn’t flushed.

“It’s okay Ivan,” I say, “It’s okay.” When Ivan was younger and nearly non-verbal, he’d have huge tantrums. He’d bang his head against furniture, walls, me. He’d scream and thrash. Always the end would come, and always I’d hold him, repeat “It’s okay,” over and over. Though the particulars have changed, and they aren’t nearly as dramatic or extreme, I find myself repeating this benediction whenever something goes awry. I say it for all of Ivan, me, his sisters. I say it for all of us. Because the girls—The Sisters—as Ivan calls them, bear some of the brunt of this life, too. They’re used to things that other kids aren’t, and have become accustomed to dealing with their brother, and the ways in which life can be chaotic. Once, Chloe—Ivan’s oldest sister—had a friend over and Ivan was screeching excitedly over a toy. The girl crossed her arms, glared at Ivan, and then finally asked Chloe, “How do you put up with this?”

Chloe looked up from their game, glanced around the room, and said, “Put up with what?” she said.

Giselle, in the stall at the truck stop, doesn’t look shocked by anything she’s seen, and even, in fact, looks a little bored with it all. “Mom,” says Giselle, “I have to go now.” I nod.

Giselle looks at the seat, and reaches over and pull a single square of toilet paper from the dispenser. Without hesitation, she begins mopping the seat. We all have our limits, but it takes a few seconds before I realize exactly what is happening: I’m standing in the handicapped stall of the women’s bathroom, in a truck stop in Aurora, Oregon, one foot saturated in urine, one hand over an automatic flusher sensor, and my youngest child, my baby, is attempting to clean the toilet seat off with a single square of single ply toilet paper. A truck stop toilet seat.

“No, Giselle!” and I reach, at this moment, two handed, to stop her.

The toilet flushes.

“AHHHHHHHH!” Ivan screams, hands over ears and mouth a perfect O of shock and pain.

***

We leave the bathroom a few minutes later, tracing our steps back the way we came. I squeak as I walk, and people look quizzically, but I don’t care. This is a victory, I decide. Ivan didn’t have an accident, and everyone’s bodily functions were taken care of in a, mostly, timely manner. And the bathroom only suffered a little. My foot will live, and the sandal is washable.  Yes, my foot is starting to itch, but there are worse things in the world than an itchy foot.

In the convenience store, I let the kids each pick a treat. Ivan immediately goes toward the pewter and crystal pieces—tiny sculptures of fairies and unicorns and eagles. “I want one,” he says.

I shake my head. Giselle picks a candy bar, and she and I get in the long line of men. There’s one cashier, a girl 20, maybe 21.

“Ivan,” I say. “You can have something small to eat. You can’t have one of those.” Ivan nods and makes his way to the candy racks. The cashier is flirting with each customer, just a little. A kind of generously wide smile and flick of ponytail. She’s round in the face and stomach, and has that small town, rural look of someone who isn’t expecting anything beyond the moment. The line is long and all middle aged men in coveralls or jeans and boots, and they wait more patiently than I do. Ivan runs his hands over the candy bars as though he’s feeling the contents of each. Then he turns and goes back to the fairies and eagles.

“Ivan,” I warn.

“I know,” he says. He goes over to the chips, picks up a bag, inspects it, then puts it back. The cashier giggles as she drops some man’s change, laughs out a playful “sorry!”

Ivan goes back to the pewter and crystals.

“Ivan, come on,” I say. I want to add “I have pee on my foot and this girl is flirting with every guy and taking forever. And you want a tacky dragon or tiger or something?” Ivan doesn’t move, and I can tell it’s because he doesn’t really hear me. “Ivan! We’re almost to the front of the line.”

Ivan’s head snaps up. He runs to the candy racks, and pulls a Snickers, and gets in line with us. He’s there for just a second before he says, “No. Not this,” and runs back. He collides with a guy who glares at him. Ivan doesn’t notice, and this time, he brings back a red bag of Skittles.

When it’s our turn, Giselle puts her candy on the counter, but Ivan turns and runs back again. “I can’t decide!” he moans.

“Come on, Ivan,” I say, gently. The men behind us are annoyed, I can feel it, though at least no one has said anything.

“It’s just that I really want one of those.” He points at the statues in the corner.

“You can’t have that. Not today. Maybe another day, but not today.” The men now are staring, all of them, and one of them openly guffaws. “Come on, lady,” one says under his breath.

I look at the men, hold their eyes for a minute—a trick I learned a long time ago when people are angry with Ivan, and by extension, me--and then tell Ivan to get the Snickers bar. In these moments, sometimes limiting the options and taking control is the best idea. Ivan runs, grabs the candy bar, and brings it back to the cashier, and puts it on the counter. I turn to the cashier, who is, surprisingly, smiling at me. It’s genuine.

“He’s autistic, isn’t he,” she says. No question mark. “One of mine is, and he’s like that. Crazy.” She laughs. “But he goes for fire trucks and police cars. Things like that.” She rings us up, takes my bills, hands back coins. She smiles at Giselle, and at Ivan.

The exchange is small, and we’re out the door in a moment, and back in the car. Down the highway, the moment lingers. I play it back, again. How nice it is to be recognized, I think. How good it is to be finally seen.

*tm