Mexican Bathrooms Aren't the Greatest

Last night we were feeling adventurous. If I knew the adventure we would have, I'm sure I would've taken precautions.

It was a bit later than usual when Caleb and I picked up the boys and started heading home. Rain was coming down in buckets as I drove, but the boys seemed to be in a good mood and traffic wasn't too awful. On a wild hair, I suggested we try out the new Mexican place that we drive by a million times a day and is always packed out. All four of us huddled under umbrellas and swam our way into the bright, spicy smells of the restaurant. I had my heart set on a margarita - nothing could deter me from that tunnel vision.

All was well - the food was quick and SO good, margarita perfect, boys behaving - UNTIL Finn announced he had to go to the bathroom. With his recently acquired skill, Finn insists on checking out the loo at every place we go. I really don't mind, whatever it takes to get him to continue to be a Pants Man!)

Like all good Mexican restaurants, this one was cool and kitchy, with all kinds of knick-knacks and an Aztec themed decor. The bathroom was no exception. Each stall had a different style door that ran eight feet high, with no usual open space at the bottom, and an assortment of latches and locks on each one. You see where I'm going yet?

Finn, the good Pants Man he is, popped into a stall and locked the door, leaving me on the other side while he did his business. But when he was ready to come out, he couldn't work the latch back to the unlocked position.

This. freaked. him. OUT!

Wailing and screeching, thrashing and clawing, he tried to crawl underneath but there was only a two inch crack. I was trying not to panic, but I honestly couldn't figure out how we were going to get out of this without Finn traumatized or that door coming off its hinges. Visions of potty regression swam through my head - of Finn, never getting over his hostage ordeal and shunning all bathrooms forever out of sheer terror. I guess I should have been more worried about him being stuck, but honestly, there was nothing in there that could hurt him (unless he plunged his own head in the toilet) and this was my biggest concern. Oh, and then there was him being scared to death.

A woman heard the commotion and offered to get her 10 year old son to climb over the top and unlock the door from the inside. It seemed to take three hours for them to return, all the while Finn crying pitifully from the inside and saying "My mamma, I need my mamma!" over and over. I couldn't calm him down from the other side of the door; if anything the sound of my voice was making him more frantic since he could hear me but couldn't see me.

The older boy burst into the bathroom, took one look at how high the door was, and started to panic himself. The mom left to get the dad, another three hours passed, and the dad burst into the bathroom to join the fray. With a big boost from dad, the boy launched himself over the door. Finn immediately stopped crying and I heard him say "Hi!". The lock was thrown, the door opened, and Finn was liberated from his prison potty at last! He didn't seem scarred for life and I turned to the Rescue Family and gratefully & profusely thanked them.

Unfortunately, Rescue Mom thought it was the perfect opportunity to ask me if Jesus Christ was my personal Lord and Saviour and detail her evangelical ministry to me in the form of the sermon, "Thank God We Were Here to Save Your Son, Just Like God Sent Jesus to Save Mankind". It was a real winner. But my dinner was getting colder by the moment, and I had a margarita waiting. We washed hands and I excused myself as politely as I could, promising I would give it some thought and get back to her.

So far there's been no lasting potty trauma. More importantly, I got to finish my margarita. I know Jesus is glad my priorities are in line.