Poop and Consequence

“Eat the Egg McMuffin,” she said, dropping it on the empty hot cakes and sausage foam plate. “I don't want you complaining within two hours at the park that you're hungry.” I wasn’t hungry though. I just finished three pancakes and some sort of meat patty. I asked her to take it away, but my mom insisted. “We’ll go to Six Flags when you eat this; until it’s gone, we’re not leaving.” I couldn’t let an egg sandwich come between me and roller coaster heaven, so I grinned and ate it. After a grueling take-down, my mom, dad, sister, my swell stomach, and I headed back into the car for our annual trip to Six Flags Great America.

You may wonder why I had to eat more after finishing what one would argue was a hearty meal for a 60-pound 9-year-old. First, my mom insisted we take part in the clean plate club for each meal; I believe that’s a consequence of being raised by Great Depression-era parents. Second, she was an advocate of frugal spending when it came to food. To ensure we wouldn’t indulge in overpriced park grub, my mom’s tactic included eating a whopping meal of fast food on the way. For double insurance, she assembled a cooler filled with juice boxes, granola bars, and slimy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in case of midday hunger pangs. You ate those brown bag champions since Mom would rather you eat dog food than pay six dollars for a hot dog.

With an hour left on our journey, I quietly watched the views from the car window. The calm was interrupted by a tremendous rumble down yonder. And another. And one very loud rumble that resembled what I imagine Ridley Scott tried to emulate during the Alien birthing scenes. Those stomach rumbles were warning calls for an impending disaster--a disaster that surely no humble Accord deserved. I shook my mom’s seat in front and told her I had to go…bad. Also an advocate of not using public restrooms, she shrugged off my request and suggested I wait until we get to the park. Now, as most animals know, when your intestines send tremors throughout your system, they’re not screwing around. And when you’re a kid, it’s imperative to regard that message with high priority. For my second plea, I screeched with an unmistakable sense of urgency. Fortunately, the next exit was a rest stop. My dad pulled the car into an empty spot, and my mom and I ran for the bathroom. I remember situating my cheeks so swiftly onto the porcelain you’d think I reached a breakthrough in magnetic science. I did what needed to be done and the urge was gone. We settled back into the Accord to continue our journey to Six Flags.

Time for some real talk: If your body has ever tried to eliminate something from your system, you may know that one round is rarely the endgame. And, of course, my body was not done with all that McDonald's bullshit. Or just shit—let’s be real. About 15 minutes later, I had that foreboding urge, and that urge turned to desperate need within seconds. I shouted for my parents to stop again, insisting that I couldn’t bear another moment. Unfortunately, the next exit was not for another seven miles, which meant at least another 10 minutes of that feeling. I laid down, closed my eyes, and imagined Ronald McDonald throwing hockey puck-shaped eggs at my mouth while he cackled.

I soon felt the Accord slow its pace; my destination was close! This time, on the other hand, I felt I couldn’t control the surge if I moved even an inch. Not having a penchant for cleaning car upholstery, my mom threw me over her shoulder and rushed me into the gas station bathroom. I don’t remember what happened between toilet and sink contact, and perhaps that’s for the best. What I do remember was feeling exhausted. As a kid, the sort of clenching stamina I exhibited was extraordinary, but it came at a steep cost. We continued our trek up to Six Flags, and I nervously stared out the window dreading another bodily murmur.

As my dad caught sight of the roller coasters on the horizon, the family started to cheer. We finally made it. But I cried. I cried because I didn’t want to be on the road any longer. I cried from the embarrassment of seeing all the strangers during each incident. And I mostly cried because my…you know what was on fire. My mom asked if I needed some medicine and I nodded. We stopped off at the exit before Six Flags to visit the Piggly Wiggly. My dad and I went in; he grabbed me that pink miracle: Pepto Bismol. He gave me a swig and hid the bottle as I insisted on chugging the rest. We got back in the car and just as the enthusiasm for the theme park started to rise again, I silenced it with a resounding “I WANT TO GO HOME!” I was so focused on my discomfort. I don’t remember how upset my parents were—if at all. I’m sure they were OK with not going to the theme park. Although I bet my sister was disappointed. You know, I want to take the blame for that disappointment, but honestly, I think it’s foolish to feed a kid more when they’re already full. You’re on a road trip, and saving a few bucks on theme park food should be a goal not a rule. I mean no disrespect to my mom. We all make mistakes. The repercussions of this mistake would be grand, though.

Because of that day, I developed a fear of traveling in cars. I could handle the 5-minute bus ride to school, but a 10-minute ride to the grocery store or mall? Nope. I refused to travel outside my comfort zone, which included laser precision toilet location awareness. This went on for several months, and I made no effort to free myself from that paranoia.

(To give some background to the next section, I participated in coloring contests—and often won prizes. I recently entered a contest to win a trip to Disney World. That was, of course, prior to D-Day.)

Several months later on an early Saturday morning, I heard the phone ring. My mom answered, and her confused tone hastily turned to excitement. In that moment, I knew exactly why my mom was so ecstatic. She was saying my name, saying the Lord’s name, and thanking whoever Walt was. I was so scared. Mom yelled for me to come downstairs. My heart dropped. I slowly walked down the steps and she met me halfway, shoving the phone against my head.

“Hi. Is this Katie?” the voice asked.

“…Yes.”

“Well, Katie, we here at Piggly Wiggly want to congratulate you on winning the grand prize in our coloring contest for a trip to Disney World!”

 “No. No. No-no-no… NO-NO-NO-NOOOOO!! …Please, nooo-oohoho!” I started to cry, laid down on the stairs, and rolled down them in dramatic 9-year-old fashion. With utmost certainty, I understood my doom awaited me on this 2-hour plane ride if I couldn’t handle a 10-minute car ride. My mom grabbed the phone off the stairs assuring the person on the other end that we accepted the grand prize. Thanks, MOM. I was horrified. I must be the only kid that has heard “you’re going to Disney World” and wept tears of despair. My mom tried to comfort me, but I insisted that the family should go without me and I would never color again. I retired.

With the Disney trip booked, my parents realized they had to break me of my fear or the plane ride would be a nightmare. A month before Disney World, they arranged a road trip to Michigan. Again, I was terrified at the thought of being on the road for 10 minutes let alone five hours. I contemplated running away, feigning illness, calling the police, but settled on hiding in my grandparent’s home. As the family packed up the Accord for Michigan, I slipped out the patio door and ran over to my grandparent’s house (conveniently next door to our home). My grandma answered, and with that, the water works immediately poured as I howled about how scared I was. Being the nurturing caregiver she was (still is), Grandma brought me inside with tender consolation. As I calmed down, I didn’t hear the knock on the door. She went to answer the door, and I suddenly realized it was one of my parents coming to collect me. I sprinted upstairs to the attic, shut the door, and hid in the closet. Muffled voices turned to footsteps that grew louder and louder.

“Kaaaatie!?” my dad yelled at the top of the stairs. “It’s time to go!”

“Nooo, I’m not going! You can’t make me!” Famous last words from a child in hiding. In a matter of seconds, my sanctuary was discovered, and I was slung over my dad’s shoulder. I cried, screamed, kicked, and punched to no avail. My grandma urged him to let me stay seeing my distress. Dad knew better.

“She’ll never get over this fear if we don’t push her. That trip to Disney World is coming up, and hell if I’m gonna deal with this tantrum at an airport.” I was dropped in the backseat next to my sister, and the door slammed shut with a swift click of the locks. I immediately went to grab the handle— “Don’t even think about leaving this car, young lady. You leave, I’ll tie you down next time.” The words put my will into submission and I resigned to my fate. I was going to have to poop on this trip—I just knew it! My mom came around a couple minutes later and placed our dogs, Maggie and Ginger, onto my lap. Their little jumps, sweet kisses, and wagging tails soon had me forgetting all about not wanting to be in the car. So much so, that we were already five minutes away from home. Surely, if two silly pugs can make a five-hour trip, so could I. And if not, I guess I’d go on the side of the road with them.

I don’t remember if I ended up having to go #2 on that road trip. And it didn’t matter. Even though D-Day is the thing I remember most about that one Six Flags trip, I realized the journey to your destination is one small part of the bigger story. You can’t make new memories without taking the risk of getting a bit messy along the way.