One of the very best things about family vacations is that they eventually end.
You don’t have to stay there. You get to come home. It all ends. It’s all okay in the end. You’ll be okay. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.
We went to Mexico for a couple weeks this year and had some fun times, but first let me tell you about those last few days, when we were past the excitement, bonding, and quality time, and the fit hit the shan in a very real, stinky way.
Graeme was done.
He won’t admit it even now, but the day before we flew back to California, he was regretting the moment his parents met because it eventually led to his existence, and that eventually led to him standing on the beach with poop all over his shirt.
It was a sweaty day and Graeme had just spent two hours in a 5-person car with eight other people. That’s right; it was nine of us, and one of them, being a toddler and unable to speak, spent about thirty minutes screaming in a very cute dress.
A fortnight of smog, assorted family shenanigans, and diarrhea were really getting to us, but we were powering through, sustained by the thought that we’d be home the next day, and someday this would be twenty years ago.
As soon as we arrived at the beach, we saw signs for the wedding, the main reason for our trip. We were the first guests to arrive, and they were still setting up. There was a sign hanging from an arch, with the names of the bride and groom. The ampersand was backwards, and I approached one of the guys who was setting up.
“Hey, the ampersand is backwards”
“Huh. So it is. I guess it says “DNA” then.” He chuckled and walked away.
I had to use the bathroom and my heart didn’t sink, but rather shriveled up a little bit when I looked over and saw in the distance a row of roofless stalls under a tarp.
No problem. I can do all things through Christ and the knowledge that we’ll be home tomorrow. So I walked over, gathering about a cup of sand in each shoe as I went.
The bathroom receptionists were an ancient couple who sat behind a long plastic table and sold gum, marshmallows, tiny soap bars, and the opportunity to poo behind closed doors, which is better than out in the ocean. There were no latches on the doors, so you had to hold the door closed while you did your business and the waves crashed pleasantly in the background. It wasn’t that bad, really. For a small fee you could even get toilet paper.
As I washed my hands with a very slimy communal bar of bright pink laundry soap, I wondered, how do people get in the toilet-and-marshmallow business? What inspires them to pursue this endeavor?
-Hey, you know what would be a really great business venture? Toilets.
-Toilets? Really?
-Yeah, toilets on the beach. Everyone poops. There’s even a book about that, have you seen it? There’s a little watermelon pooping seeds.
-Could we also sell watermelon?
-Let’s do marshmallows instead.
Feeling relieved and grateful for my first world toilet back home, I walked back to our table to find Graeme was gone. Fortunately, he’s not hard to find in Mexico, seeing as he is an almost 6’ white guy with Jesus hair.
He was by the water, but not walking on it, with Cookie, who wasn’t wearing her cute dress anymore and had sand in every crevice of her body. She might still have a little bit in her bellybutton as we speak.
As I approached her, she took a handful of sand, threw it in her ear, then turned to look at me with a very swollen, red, sandy eye.
What’s wrong? I asked my quietly seething husband.
Nothing, he said, and then kicked a passing dog. Not really, but there were lots of dogs, now that you mention it.
The wedding was about to begin, so we decided we should make our way back.
And that’s when it happened.
Graeme picked up the sand with the baby on it, and as her butt made contact with his new, clean, crisp, white linen shirt, the terrible contents of her diaper were swiftly and completely emptied on the right half of the last white shirt Graeme will ever own.
And it wasn’t just a little smear. She felt lighter.
I’m talking half a can of Rosarita’s Traditional Refried Beans, Good Source of Fiber smear.
My face did something terrible. My mom gasped. My aunt put her hand over her mouth and I remembered she throws up easily. The ampersand guy didn’t notice.
Well, poopsicle.
Graeme was already sweaty and annoyed, and now his shirt needed to be burned.
The wedding was about to begin, so Graeme and I walked over to the toilets real quick, Graeme wisely holding Cookie at arm’s length.
I asked the lady if we could use the sink and she conceded until she looked up and saw the half-digested beans on Graeme’s shirt and realized what we wanted the sink for.
Wait! No! What are you going to wash?!
Uh…her face is a little sandy?
She told us to go around to the bigger sink, and we bought a tiny soap bar without making eye contact.
As we started walking away, the lady came after us again, carrying a bucket of water.
Frankly, at this point, I would have been disappointed if there had been running water.
Also, there was no sink.
There was, however, a prehistoric tilted stone that is used for sacrifices and rituals during the week and for washing baby butts on weekends. That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.
Graeme took his shirt off while Cookie played with a bit of trash, and I washed it until it looked like it came from the thrift shop. You know, mostly white with a faint, acceptable stain.
Next came the baby, who was so nasty we had to get a second bucket of water. As I scrubbed her butt, I turned around and realized the toilet business is family run, and we were providing some of the younger family members with a really fun day.
By now Graeme was in a very good mood, which is interesting.
We gathered our things and put Cookie’s dress back on. Nothing happened. Nothing to see here. Except through the soaking wet shirt. There were a few things to see there.
I was reminded of a conversation I almost had with a pastor during a youth retreat. We were sitting by the pool when he said, “Alright, I’m going home now, you guys have fun. No wet t-shirt contests though!” Being highly innocent, I had no idea what that meant so I asked him. He smiled, looked away and got up to leave.
Now, of course, I realize why he didn’t want to explain a wet t-shirt contest. Hansel’s hairy-olas were on display as he left a trail of water and dignity through the wood.
And then he looked at me and said…
“Huh. This day is going much better than I expected.”
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