Gas Station Drama

Have you ever sprinted into a gas station carrying a toddler as if you were a contestant on The Amazing Race? Was your shirt bunched up, exposing your less than toned belly? Was the toddler you were carrying yelling, “Hurry, hurry?” Then, before you even stepped foot in the bathroom she sighed and declared, “Too late.” It was apparently your fault for going around the shelf of pork rinds and Hot Fries instead of taking it like Lolo Jones. In fact, you should’ve broken through the glass entrance rather than open it. It’s also your fault there isn’t a bathroom near the cow pasture or corn fields.

Did you spend 20 minutes inside a bathroom that smells like feta cheese potpourri trying to figure out how to get your child’s pants off without getting s**t everywhere? Oh, yeah and your kid isn’t Britney Spears. So, you didn’t want her stepping barefoot on a floor where hundreds of strangers urinate on a daily basis, right?


Did you bust out some David Copperfield magic to create a path of paper towels for her to stand on while removing her rancid clothing only to face another dilemma? Now, she doesn’t have any underwear or pants and you have to get from the bathroom to your minivan parked outside. Did you run, sweating profusely, out of a public restroom holding a toddler dressed like one of Lady Gaga’s backup dancers? Did the gas station employees look stunned? Once you got back to the car did your other children ask, “What took so long?” Did you want to scream at the top of your lungs while bathing in Purell? Has that ever happened to you? Yeah, um, me neither.

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