From the Douchebag Parenting Files

So, I've been less likely to blog about my family as of late, but I still commit some mothering crimes from time to time that I've been keeping in my pocket to share when I feel ready.

I have judgment issues, most likely stemming from my highly right-sided, ADHD-addled brain. Over the summer, we were invited to a family friend's house in Bloor West Village. It was a gorgeous day, so we decided to embrace the urban and take the subway there. (For those not from Toronto, and not stalkers, it's the other side of town from where we live. About at 45 minute subway ride. Yes, with two kids under 6.)

Don't get me wrong. I love the subway. I wish we had more of them, which is probably the only item on our new buffoon's, er, mayor's agenda that I agree with. This is not a post where I complain about public transit in Toronto or malign the TTC in any way. This is a post where I am about to humilate myself.

Walking through the gorgeous old Toronto neighbourhood with my daughter on my shoulders, I felt very much a part of my city. On the train we'd passed above ground stations with stunning graffiti left on visible walls to entertain and provoke thought amongst sleepy passengers. On foot I scoped possible SweetMama stories, examined the local schools, pondered futures where we don't live in a tiny East end shack.

We ran into my SIL and my niece on the way. We were greeted by our family friends, the best friends of my in-laws, and their visiting children and grandchildren. Three generations ate hot dogs and swung in hammocks with the sun caressing our faces and it was just like I hoped it would be when I was a child watching movies like Cousins. (I remember really liking that movie at the time, OK? I'm a huge Ted Danson fan.)

There was a lot of commotion with kids playing baseball and Lucy wanting to watch TV inside while drinking a giant juice and me telling J that we really need to make sure the kids pee before we leave, but neither of us actually making that happen. We left at a half-decent hour and made the trek back to the subway station. We could get them to go pee there, right?

Except hardly any of Toronto's TTC subway stations have actual bathrooms in them for the public to use. (Oh, I said I wouldn't lambast them right? My bad.) Because why would we spend taxpayer's money on something they actually need?

So sure enough, three stations in, Lucy had to go pee. And when she has to go pee she sort of gets dramatic. "Hafta go PEE! Hafta go PEE!" J informs me that there's a pull-up in his backpack. But how to get it on her while on moving vehicle where people may not appreciate the cuteness of her bare bum?

And while it wasn't those fancy Huggies with the sides that can open and reclose, I ripped the sides open and shoved the pull-up in her pants. Then I held her in crouch position in a privatish corner of the subway car (with me seated) and told her to go. Except she couldn't. Because she's been potty trained forever and that goes against everything she believes in about herself and her hygiene. So she protested over and over again. It was pretty awful, but there was no getting off and back on, because hey! The TTC doesn't work that way either (*unless you have a Metropass).

It's OK sweetie, I coach her, just go this one time. It's OK.

And that's when I hear the splash.

Then I feel the warm wet up against my sandals. Fuuuuuck.

My husband, who disagreed with my diaper tearing and stuffing methods, looks at me with I-told-you-so eyes. I am mortified, but feel OK about the fact that a) the train is very full and b) the stroller seems to be blocking anybody from seeing the puddle at my feet.

That is, until the train stopped.

When a TTC train stops, it screeches forward, thrusting everyone and their belongings in the direction of the door. So imagine my face when an insane amount, like an entire Del Monte puffy juice pack's worth, of pee rushed towards the door.

Add this to the fact that my upset daughter was sitting on my lap for comfort, wet jeggings against my now-soaked dress. Add this to the verbal I-told-you-sos. I could not make eye contact with the other passengers, though I would glance at them from time to time to make sure they weren't looking at the river whose source was my feet. I had sullied the train.

I wish I could say that this was a one-off; that this was the only time something like this has happened in my tenure as a mom, but alas, no. Just the first pee-on-the-TTC incident.

More files from my Douchebag Parenting Handbook to come.