We should have left five minutes ago. Hopefully traffic won’t be bad.
“Hurry up,” I call out to the kids. “You don’t need coats. You won’t even get out of the car.”
“Milo doesn’t have shoes on,” Charlotte points out as I hunt for my purse and keys.
“That’s fine. He’s not gettin’ outta the car either! But hurry, we gotta go!”
“It’s snowing!” I hear all three children yell as they shuffle out to the van parked in the driveway—a driveway that just fifteen minutes ago was black pavement but is now dusted with fat, icy flakes.
Snow? I didn’t know it was going to snow. Oof. Now we’ll definitely be late.
We have twenty minutes to drive to the Hamilton County Job and Family Services office where our one-year-old foster daughter has weekly visits with her mother. We’ve made this trip many times for her visits, and on a sunny day without traffic it is a twenty-three minute commute, but the roads in our neighborhood are just slick enough that I can’t take my hands off the wheel to fiddle with my phone for the updated estimated time of arrival. I know it will be past 4:00.
My brain searches for alternative options. It will take at least an hour of white knuckles to get us to downtown Cincinnati, but as the van slides along, maxing out at 10 mph, I know there are no other options. These aren’t plans I can cancel. We are new to the foster parent world, but I’m pretty sure it goes against protocol to ask the caseworker to take our foster daughter home with him for the night and offer to pick her up once the roads are clear.
Nevertheless, I call the caseworker to give him the heads up that we’ll be late, secretly hoping he’ll have a genius plan B that involves me turning this Honda Odyssey around and heading back home.
“Like, how late do you think you’ll be?” he asks.
Words frantically fall out of my mouth. “I’m guessing it will be another hour. I`m so sorry. The roads are terrible, and it’s bumper-to-bumper traffic. I didn't even know it was going to snow today.” Please offer to drive her to my house. Please offer to take her home. Please have a plan B.
“OK…well, be safe, and call me when you get here.” He hangs up.
Alright. I guess we’re doing this. I stare at a minefield of red tail lights in front of me and want to cry, but instead, I start doing what I always do in moments of panic—an incessant amount of rambling self-talk in hopes that my rational words might convince everyone, primarily myself, that indeed it is true—we will be OK.
“OK. This is OK. We’re going to be OK.” Has anyone ever strung those two letters together so many times in a row? “We have gas. Almost a full tank, in fact. Thank you, Lord. I have my phone. I have a charger. I should plug that in.” A smile forces its way across my face as I peek into the rearview mirror. Surely the three kids know I'm faking it. Please don’t call my bluff.
My rambling continues as I detail the items we are missing. Coats for one thing, but we have blankets and heat. Milo has no shoes, but the three-year-old probably won’t be doing much walking. Shoot. I didn’t have him—or anyone— use the bathroom before we left. He will likely wet his pants, but that’s manageable.
But while on the subject of going to the bathroom, I need to pee. Getting off on an exit to find a gas station will add an hour to the trip. I can hold it. I think. The lane lines have disappeared and the highway feels like a giant game of tetris. Google Maps shows nothing but red lines, and the travel time is increasing as we sit motionless for long stretches before creeping a few feet at a time. I remind my shoulders to lower back into place, and decide I should call my husband.
After explaining the panic of my current situation to Stephen—in a contrived calm voice so my children think I’m adventurous—we are left at a stalemate. There really is no solution but to keep going. Speaking of going, I really do need to go to the bathroom. Soon.
“You can do this, Joy,” Stephen tells me. “Just take it slow. You’ll get there when you get there. And try to have fun.”
Have fun. That is such a Stephen thing to say. I dream of being the type of person who could laugh at this situation and have fun.
“Can we play music?” Andrew yells from the back.
Play music? Are you kidding me? I need to concentrate. I need to plan how to handle my rapidly filling bladder. Stephen would play music, probably Hamilton. He’d be rapping and dancing and assigning each child a different part of My Shot to memorize. But I don't want music. I want to keep rambling my pep-talks and prayers.
Stephen calls back a few minutes later. “I found a hotel near the Child and Family Services building. You can check in there for the night or at least for a few hours before driving back home. I explained the situation; they know you’ll be alone with 4 coatless children.”
Exhale. Bless him.
But I still don’t want to play music. And I still need to pee. Bad. I read an essay once about a mom peeing in a diaper, and I remember thinking that it wouldn't be so bad if the situation was dire. This was definitely feeling dire.
“What are you doing?” my oldest asks as I swing my hand behind me and reach into the seatback pocket for a diaper.
“I’m not totally sure, but I think I’m going to try and pee in this diaper.” They are stunned, not sure whether to laugh or scream with disgust.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and finagle the diaper into place, a more difficult task than I imagined. The stopped traffic is working in my favor because I now have both hands off the wheel—one stuffing the diaper into the front of my pants and the other pulling from the back. My right foot presses down tightly on the brake pedal as I lift my booty off the seat so I can fully spread out the diaper. Maximum absorption will be necessary. I keep my eyes forward, hoping the cars next to me are so focused on the snowy road they stay oblivious to the fact that a grown woman in the next car has her hands down her pants.
“Are you doing it? Are you peeing?” The children squeal with delight and disbelief.
“Not yet. But stop yelling. I can’t pee if you are screaming!” A disagreement breaks out as to whether or not I am being serious, and I too begin to doubt my plan. Will I actually be able to go? How much liquid can a diaper hold? What if I miss or overflow and end up sitting in a puddle of my own urine for the next couple hours?
“I need everyone to be quiet. Here, I’ll turn on some music, but I need to pee in peace.” I spend the next thirty seconds willing myself to go, commanding my body to relax. I know my children are on the edge of their seats, waiting for an update.
My bladder lets out a drop but immediately stops before I tell it to, as if it’s testing the waters to see if this is really allowed. Another drop. And another, until the floodgates are opened with no ability to stop. If forced to give a percentage, I’d say 80% ends up in the diaper. It was a good day to wear black jeans.
“I did it,’ I announce as I wiggle a bloated diaper out of my pants.
The backseat is filled with commentary. “You did it? She did it! Did you really do it? No way! That’s so gross. That’s so cool. Let me see the diaper! I want to pee in a diaper! Can I try?’
I can’t help but smile. I might not be the parent who plays car games in a blizzard, but I peed in a diaper, and that has to count for something.
*****
It is 6:30 when we pull up to the back door of the Child and Family Services building, nearly three hours since we left home. The Hamilton soundtrack is playing at a sensible volume and a bulging diaper is rolled up and tossed on the passenger side floor.
The caseworker hands me our foster daughter—please don’t take away our foster license—and leaves me on the deserted street, snow still falling. We drive the half mile down the road and find the hotel parking garage. If anyone comments on my coatless children or shoeless toddler, I don't hear them. I am laser focused on getting the five of us into that hotel room, a haven to regroup and plan the next step. The Disney Channel takes over childcare while I turn my attention to dinner. The first three pizza places I call cannot deliver because their workers haven’t shown up.
“Roads are pretty bad out there,” one man says to me over the phone. I spare him the details of my last three hours and call the next pizza place.
“One medium cheese pizza. Is that all?” the man asks me.
One pizza. No drinks. No desserts. No garlic knots. Stephen would definitely order garlic knots. But I am too anxious to eat. My mind is telling my body to relax, to celebrate, to order a 2 liter of Pepsi for goodness sake—but my body knows better. The night is far from over, and I can’t have too much fun unless I know the plan for the rest of this night.
“Yep. That’s all.”
“We’ll be there in 30 minutes.”
I end the call and close the bathroom door. I take a deep breath, thankful to have made it safely to the hotel, but also wishing I could be more fun tonight. I am scared, flustered, and solely focused on the next step, but I want to be the parent who makes fun out of a mess rather than the one who panic-prays, pep-talks herself to death, and only orders one pizza. Maybe I should call back to order the garlic knots. Maybe I should jump into the bed and watch some tv with the. kids. That doesn’t feel like my style, but I want my kids to remember this night as a crazy adventure rather than a night with their crazy mom.
*****
It is close to midnight when we pull the van safely back into our driveway.
“You only ordered one pizza?” Stephen asks as I recount the details of our night after changing my pants. “Oh babe, that’s so cute.”
“It’s not cute. It’s lame.”
“What matters is that you’re all safe. And I bet the kids had a great night.” he tells me.
I want to believe it.
******
Months later, long after the snow has melted and the summer has come and gone, we are driving to school, the oldest two in the far back, the toddler in his carseat, and a new foster baby buckled in behind me.
“Do you remember that time we got to stay in the hotel and eat pizza because it was snowing so bad?” Andrew calls out.
“Oh yeah! And we got to watch Property Brothers!”
“And mom peed in her pants!”
“Correction!’ I announce. “It wasn’t in my pants. It was in a diaper. (Long pause.) Most of it.” They erupt into laughter.
“That was the best night ever.”
“Yeah. I hope we can do that again sometime.”
