Cherish Every Moment? No Thanks.

I realize that I’m supposed to Cherish Every Moment™ as a mother. I’ve heard that phrase ad nauseum from older moms, and having raised two stepdaughters, I totally know where they’re coming from.

I’ve learned the hard way that puberty is like the ultimate parenting bitch slap, and it has a sting that lingers. We parents are like human Silly Bandz to our kids, desired and revered for a few years before we’re ultimately rejected and deemed embarrassing. In the end, all we’re left with are memories of the golden years and a drawerful of elementary school art we don’t quite know what to do with.

Despite all this, there are still some Moments with my little ones that I could do without. One is taking my 4-year-old son to a public restroom.

For one thing, he’s recently decided that it’s a major indignity to have to do his business in a room that’s intended for women only.

“AWWWW, LAY-DEEEZ!” he bellows when he sees the sign over the door as we prepare to enter. “I HAFTA GO IN THE LAY-DEEEEZ ROOM?! WHY, MOMMY? WHY?” He tries to pull me toward the men’s room instead.

“Because I am a lady and you’re coming with me,” I say, yanking him into the restroom as he struggles in the opposite direction.

Once inside, he of course feels compelled to try and peer underneath every stall with a closed door. I actually believe this behavior is ingrained into all boys, because I can’t tell you how many impish little faces have peered up at me over the years from under stalls and dressing room dividing walls. How many chubby fingers I’ve gently stomped on. How many foreheads I’ve prodded with the underside of my shoe.

“Stop it,” I hiss, dragging him toward an open stall door on the other end of the room as he attempts to crouch before each closed door along the way. “That is not allowed. Stop it right now.”

“BUT DERE’S FEETS UNDER DERE, MOMMY,” Bruiser shouts. “LOOK,” he says, lunging toward a pair of cute red pumps under one door. “FEETS.” Suddenly, he stops, his attention diverted. He wrinkles his nose. “EWWW, WHAT’S THAT SMELL?” He laughs in delight. “I THINK SOMEBODY POOTED.”

I push him into a tiny stall and lock the door behind us. This is the part where I’m actually grateful to have a boy. When Punky was small, restroom visits involved wiping down the toilet, lining it with paper, lifting her onto the potty, making sure her dress was carefully bunched around her, and helping her wipe at the end. Bruiser, on the other hand, can do everything himself. Better yet, neither one of us have to touch anything.

Unless I have to go. And I usually do.

“Hold on,” I say when he’s finished. “Now you have to wait for me.” We swap places in the cramped stall. Of course, I’d much rather Bruiser wait outside, but in this day and age it doesn’t seem like such a good idea. At least at first.

“WHY YOU NOT HAVE A PEANUT, MOMMY?” Bruiser says loudly. He chortles. “WHERE YOUR PEANUT?” Outside my stall, the restroom falls silent.

“Shhhhhh!” I whisper. “Girls don’t have peanuts. Turn around.”

With his back to me, Bruiser focuses instead on the stall’s latch. Slyly, he starts to open it.

“Don’t you DARE open that door, Bruiser,” I say.

“I’M GOING TO OPEN IT,” he says in a singsong voice.

“Don’t you DARE.”

“I OPENING IT NOW,” he taunts, slowly sliding the latch.

“Do it and I’m calling The Farm,” I say desperately. It’s been a long day already and I’m nearing the bottom of my bag of threats. Fortunately, The Farm is enough to stop him. Briefly. He sighs the sigh of someone who’s been waiting lifetimes.

“WHAT TAKING YOU SO LONG, MOMMY? ARE YOU GOING POO POO?”

“No I am not!” I hiss.

“THEN WHY YOU TAKE SO LONG?” He hesitates. “DO YOU HAVE DIARRHEA?” he says daringly.

As if in answer, I hear a snort from the stall beside mine.

“I! do! Not! Have! Diarrhea!” I say. “Be quiet!”

“MOMMY HAVE DIARRHEA! MOMMY HAVE DIARRHEA!” Bruiser sings. I hear snickering coming from the direction of the sinks.

This is unbearable. It’s time to pull out all the stops and use the Ultimate Threat. “That’s it, Bruiser,” I say quietly. “You’re going to get spanked.”

“NOOOOOO!” Bruiser shouts. Before I can stop him, he yanks open the latch and zips out from the stall into the restroom. The stall door swings open and I grab for it from where I sit. I manage to slam it shut, but not before I’ve made eye contact with four different women in the mirror over the sinks.

Brilliant.

“Wait for me outside, Bruiser!” I say helplessly. “I’ll be out in one second.”

“DERE’S FEETS UNDER DERE, MOMMY,” I hear Bruiser say outside. “I THINK SOMEONE UNDER DERE…. OWW!” I’m guessing that that someone’s foot has made contact with Bruiser’s face. Well, the kid finally got what he deserved.

As quickly as I can, I finish up in the stall and come out into the restroom. Bruiser joins me at the sinks, rubbing his forehead. Together, we wash our hands in silence. Beside us, a grandmotherly woman watches us, smiling.

“Cherish every moment,” she says, catching my eye in the mirror. “They grow up so fast.”

I try to smile back at her, but I’m afraid it ends up looking more like a grimace. I make a mental note then to tell younger moms one day to cherish most moments when their kids are small.

Because I have to believe that moments like this one are better forgotten.