Life after diapers should create a newfound ease.  It should be freeing. But sometimes it’s hilariously exhausting, especially when it comes to excursions outside the home with those fresh-out-of-diapers children or preschoolers. You know the scenario…it starts with an innocent declaration: “Mommy, I gotta go potty.” But did you ever notice how those five words, when spoken in public, cause your heart to race and your teeth to clench? Why? Is it because those words are always spoken when there is no bathroom in sight? Or the fact that you repeatedly asked your youngster (within the last hour) ─ when a bathroom was just steps away ─ if he/she had to go potty? Or is it because you know that to get a preschooler successfully in and out of a public restroom, you’ll diminish all hopes of completing any errand, however short?

And, why is meeting such a commonplace need so risky? I’ve had plenty of time holding doors closed for my children’s privacy to consider this question. In my opinion, it’s because of the “new and improved” facilities that abound these days. I’m all for new technology, if in the right places. But the bathroom? The standard flush toilet worked fine; and then toilet inventors changed it. Now it’s auto-flush only in most stalls. Come to think of it, there’s also auto-squirt on soap machines, auto-rinse on sinks, and auto-dispense on paper towels. Soon, we’ll likely be waving our hands for our allotment of toilet tissue. Nevertheless, whoever designed all these sanitation conveniences was certainly not a three-foot tall preschooler or the mother of one!

Frankly, auto-flush has ruined our daily outings. Every trip to a public restroom begins with questions (in echoing, high-pitched voices): “Is it loud? Does it flush by itself?” My children must think that I’ve pre-screened every potty in the world! And let me tell you, auto-flush requires great care. Don’t be fooled by all the times it doesn’t operate at all for you, even when you want it to. We’re talking preschoolers here; just getting a child to approach an automated version of the throne can mean lots of coaxing, cajoling, downright commanding, and a conversation like this: “Don’t worry; it’s not gonna flush yet. But whatever you do, once you sit down — DON’T MOVE! Okay, I’ll hold my hand over the sensor while you go. I PROMISE it won’t flush on you.”

Even after all that, there’s no guarantee your preschooler won’t decide the need to potty wasn’t so urgent after all. Thanks to this modern bathroom invention, my once independent children now require all this hand-holding over something as ordinary as going to the bathroom. Then they flee with their pants at their ankles fearing the flush and potential risk of the up-splash. Yes, this brings me to the dangers of public restrooms. I’m certain we’ll emerge one day from a bathroom trip with a broken nose or gashed forehead from these flights of fear.

As for sensors on sinks, what’s the secret to those tricky things? I hold my hands under the faucet. Forward. Back. Side-to-side. Up. Down. Nothing. So I move my body and again…Forward. Backward. Side-to-side. Up. Down. Still nada. Pretty soon I’m doing this intricate, shifting dance with spins and twirls until…swish! The water finally turns on. But at this point my back is to the sink and I need to reposition my hands under the faucet, just as the water turns off again. Darn, resume dancing effort!

Next come my kids who can barely reach the faucet, let alone trip the sensor in the way that I’ve just attempted. So I hoist them up and do the water boogie with them too. Forward. Back. Nothing. Shift kid to hip. Twirl. Water on. Hands under and…off. Ugh! Once we’ve gotten a brief squirt of water, soaped up, and sprained an ankle trying to rinse off, we spend a little time waving at the paper towel dispenser before we give up and leave with wet hands. Exiting the public restroom could be made a whole lot easier (and cleaner) if the restroom architects installed an auto-open feature on the door. But at least I get looks of sympathy from fellow parents of preschools as I wobble out with my relieved children. The count then begins for the next complicated bathroom break.