Toilet Humour

There's a saying, "When you have a baby, you leave your dignity at the door". Seems they weren't just talking about the birth. Children have a way of directly or indirectly lowering your glamour status in the community. Today my dignity was left at the door. The toilet door.

With Michelle in tow, we sisters took our three children on the train to visit Sea Life, the Sydney Aquarium in Darling Harbour. After leaving the station via the wrong exit, it took us a bit longer than expected to walk to Darling Harbour. By the time we arrived, the kids were a bit fractious, so although I needed to visit the bathroom, I decided I'd just go once they'd seen a few fish.

What I didn't know when I made that fateful decision, is that the toilets are towards the end of the aquarium circuit.

As time progressed, being surrounded by water, the impact of my selfless decision was becoming apparent. By the time the toilets were on the horizon, I was ready to push pregnant women aside and jump over toilet training toddlers.

My ever helpful sister suggested we avoid the queue by piling into the disabled toilet. So there we were in this little room: me, my sister, my two daughters, and my nephew. We decided we'd all go but I had priority.

With the door having just closed, it took me all of one second to be sitting on the toilet. I had one further second to think to myself how bizarre it was to have so many people in the toilet with me. That thought was quickly replaced by horror as the disabled toilet door suddenly slid open.

In case you're not aware of the positioning of disabled toilets, they're usually in hallways full of people. Better still, this one was adjacent to a cafe. So there I was, sitting on the toilet, with my bright blue undies around my ankles, entertaining the diners.

My sister gallantly tried to shield me by putting her body in the open doorway. I think she has a poor body image because it would have taken six of her to completely block the general public's view. At that point, I'm thinking... and yelling, "Just press the button to close the dooooooooooor!!"

Chaos ensued.

My sister was madly pressing buttons, while trying to stay in the doorway. It soon became apparent that standing in the doorway was keeping the door open. Michelle was laughing so hard, she couldn't tell me the buttons wouldn't work. She was barely a functional mute. Over the next 15 seconds, the door continued to open and close. Open and close. Open and close. My sister was jumping about, laughter continuing to steal her entire vocabulary. The three kids were screaming, helpfully pointing out that the door was open. I was half standing at this point. I'd pulled down my skirt but my undies were still around my ankles. The commotion was so loud that even if the many cafe patrons weren't looking in our direction at the start of the fiasco, we certainly had their attention now.

Finally, we managed to close the door and press the lock button. Relief. But it wasn't over yet. Clearly the sensors in the disabled toilet aren't set to accommodate a large number of people. That's because normal people probably go to the toilet alone. Just a thought. As I sat back down for the long awaited moment, the door slid open again, setting off the same hysteria as before. Open, close, open, close. People were looking at us like we'd just left the lunatic asylum. At that point, I need to assess my options. I'm still busting to wee. Do I just go? Or do I stand up, walk out, and hope it all stays in? It's amazing how much can go through your mind in a split second.

With absolutely no functional assistance from any members of my family, I made a choice. I ditched everyone and ran into the female toilets, past all patrons, and into a vacant stall. The moral of the story? Some things are better done alone.