I’ve ratted on my mother a couple of other times on here, but I don’t think she’d mind. Her sense of humor sustained her through most things. That’s why I don’t think she’d mind if I tell this one on her.
The joke, when traveling with my mother, was that while others took photos of the architecture or the scenery, mother always sought out the nearest bathroom. It was always the place we visited first. Then we staked out all of the available bathrooms on the site map. I didn’t understand about “bladder issues” at the time, and mother didn’t make a big deal out of it. It was simply understood. When she said, “get out of my way, I need to get to the bathroom,” your safety was at risk if your feet didn’t move fast enough.
Back in the days of my teen years, there were very few roadside rest stops in any state, and probably the fewest to be found in Arizona and New Mexico. Service stations and other comfort stops did not exist. The roads were long, the distance between pit stops longer. But my mother loved a good road trip.
We embarked upon one such trip on rather the spur of the moment one day. I was about 13, and we lived in Tucson. It was a lovely Sunday morning, I think, and Mother suddenly announced that she thought we should drive over to Tombstone and spend the day. So, off we went. I was allowed to get a giant coke at a corner 7-11 before we left town. Maybe there was a bag of chips involved as well.
We had driven about an hour once we reached the end of civilization, and mother began to look for (the earliest incarnation of the roadside rest stop), “a bush”. Stretching before us for miles was endless desert with shrubs no taller than my knee. Not a bush in sight.
When tapping her toes was no longer effective, mother pulled over to the side of the road, slammed on the brake and killed the engine. “Dump your coke and give me your paper cup!” I knew better than to argue, so I tossed the remaining coke out the window as my 6 foot tall mother, still behind the wheel, raised up her hips, pulled down her pants, took my cup, and filled it almost to the brim. But she wasn’t finished. Handing me the cup, she said, “get out and dump this and hand it back to me.” I did so, handing the cup back to her through the driver’s side window. I was in awe of the fact that she had enough control to stop midstream!
Just as she had repositioned herself above the cup, I looked to the rear of the car. A highway patrolman was just pulling off the road. Getting out of the car, he approached my mother’s window, asking if everything was ok. In a strained voice, still on tippy-toe under the steering wheel, mother said “fine, officer, just taking a rest.”
He explained to her that they had a watchpost up on the bluff..she dutifully looked in the direction he was pointing- and he had seen us pull over. When he had not seen anyone get out immediately, he had decided to investigate.
My mother, holding a now full paper cup between her legs, struggled to remain in position, carry on a nonchalant conversation, and act as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I remained out of the car, because I knew what my fate would be if I got back in and jiggled that car seat.
After a few more minutes of small talk, the officer drove away, and mother carefully handed me the cup to be emptied.
Once she pulled up her pants and was seated again firmly on the seat, there was a moment of silence. Then our eyes met, and neither of us could stop the hysterical laughter. Between the tears and the gasping mother finally managed to shout “Stop! Or I’m going to pee my pants!”
There was MORE left???