Butt Sprayers

As our shuttle bus rolled lazily through the heat to the arrivals gate, Tony rubbed his hands together. It was an anticipatory move and I thought he was going to start in again about olives. "Oh, man," he had been lisping through a mouthful of drool for the week before we returned to Oman. "Olives. I can't wait!" And sure enough he couldn't wait. Buying olives was his first official act once we had set our bags down in the Marble Mansion.




But no, it turned out that his hand rubbing this time was about something entirely different. "Butt sprayers!" he announced, in this shuttle full of jet lagged Brits who, it appeared, were being drawn back to Oman against their individual wills. "We are back in the land of butt sprayers!" Tian gave an excited little yelp and then a squeal,. "Yay! Butt sprayers!"


Each of our five bathrooms is equipped with a little spray nozzle, somewhat similar to the spray nozzles you find on most North Americans' kitchen sinks, which is nestled in there right next to the toilet. After, well, you know, you have two options for clean up--the conventional toilet paper, or that little, high-powered butt sprayer. I suppose you can guess the road that some of us head down when clean up is required.


What's more, public facilities are always equipped with butt sprayers, which rids one of the need to shower at home. If required, one can always shower in any toilet, as we recently discovered thanks to Tony.

We are currently struggling with being a one car family in a spoiled American sort of way. That is, we don't really need a second car here. After all, we have already survived one whole year with nothing more than one little Kia Rio to get us across hill and dale. As a matter of fact we have taken to calling it the Kia Rio 4x4 in the hopes that it will never realize it is just an itty bitty sedan and NOT the Ford Expediton we treat it like (and wish we had).

As we struggle with our thoroughly Yankee longings, Tony has been musing upon other transportation options in which he could invest in order to stave off his burning desire for nothing less than a big, fiery 4x4. Motorcycle has crossed his mind but, as it is 1117 degrees at noonday, and the heat would probably erode the tires in three hours, I am saying no to that one. A second itty bitty car would be so redundant. That leaves us with a bike, which is like slapping a big sign on your back that says, "Kill me now, but if I make it to work in one piece, just fire me for being so sweaty and stinky." (As if you could fit that all on one sheet of A4).


When I pointed this out, Tony said, "Oh. no, I could shower with the butt sprayer. All the guys do it before prayer time. Haven't you ever noticed how the floors are covered in an inch of water after prayer time?"


The women, I think, tend to be a bit more conservative with the pre-prayer water use than the boys. "Is this cause they're showering after their bike rides?"


"No, because they are washing for prayers. But the boys do more than wash. I think they are showering in there. I could do that--just get to work and use the butt sprayer. I would just have to be careful with the nozzle. You know..." And here Tony trailed off without explaining what I know, thanks to a graphic friend, but Silas had to ask.


"Why do you have to be careful?"

"Because what do butt sprayers spray, Silas?"


Okay, I will stop here to say that, in spite of my best efforts over the last year, Silas fails to notice the obvious 9.9 times out of ten. "I don't know, Dad," he replied. "What?"


At this, Tony launched into a very detailed verbal illustration of how one uses a butt sprayer and where one should aim it to make it work most effectively. He went on to discuss angles, measurements, possible contaminents and to generally educate all of us on butt sprayer use and etiquette. I was enlightened. Silas remained perplexed. Tian and Tehva nearly gave Tony a standing ovation right there in the back seat of the Rio 4x4.

So that conversation left us no closer to investing in a second vehicle, as was the original intent, but I think it placed us all a little closer to wondering why Tony knows what he does about the ins and outs of butt sprayers.

Flight

By the time Tian and Silas were young toddlers they were experienced flyers, having racked up enough miles to pay for trans-Pacific flights. Then there is Tehva. When we first took her on a plane at four weeks old, she spent her time gagging on breast milk and creating unpleasant odors. This is, of course, to be expected of an infant on a long haul flight, but she has rarely had a chance to undo this unfortunate beginning and has grown up more suited to situations like mud bogs and Nascar races.

Not there is anything wrong with Nascar. Or mud bogs. Really. But they are loud and dramatic events and Tehva is loud, dramatic, and exactly the type of child that makes business executives cringe when she boards a 777 for a trans-Atlantic flight. While Tian prances down the aisle, whisking her new, stylish haircut from her eyes, and Silas harrumphs through the plane toting his fifteen stuffed animals and a Matchbox vehicle, Tehva spins, collides, and ricochets, dropping toys, clothing, and hair accessories on the way.

Fellow passengers cringe, flight attendants stare in wide-eyed horror, and her siblings are mortified. Tehva has the world right where she likes it and the rest of us are helpless to do little more than watch.

"Oh," I can hear you thinking. "That is a bit harsh coming from the child's own mother, don't you think?" You were so obviously not travelling with us on the 31st of August; the proof is in the pudding, which follows:

Pudding Proof #1

"Do you have to go to pee?"

"No."

"Are you sure because the pilot has just said that we all have to stay seated now that they are pushing off from the gate and it will be a long time until the plane is in the air and seat belt sign is off."

I am sure you can see where this is going.

"Mom," Tian pleads tweenishly. "Tehva just peed before we got on the plane, remember?"

I foolishly relax, read a magazine, and feel the acceleration of the plane coursing down the runway when, over the whine of the engines I hear, "Mommy I have to go pee pee really bad."

During the course of our latest trip I counted seven eye rolls from fight attendants who would invariably bustle over to us to point out that the fasten seat belt was illuminated, only to be set straight by Tehva's, "But I have to go pee pee really bad!"

Pudding Proof #2

Everyone knows that domestic flights no longer give you anything--no checked luggage unless you pay for it, no little wings for the kids, and definitely no little salty snacks in bags anymore, which is a shame because I maintain that those snackies served multiple purposes back in the day.

What the airlines do still give out, although grudgingly, is a beverage and, being highly deprived of sugary soda on a regular basis, Tian, Silas, and Tehva LIVE for that beverage cart. Tian always orders ginger ale or cranberry juice, Silas always asks for water (but is excited about it anyway because he likes the plastic embossed cups that it comes in), and Tehva always asks for whatever will make her pee the most.

"Does cranberry juice make you pee pee a lot?"

"Yes."

"Then I want that. And when I am done with that I want some of Tian's ginger ale. And then I will drink some of what you are having. What are you having?"

"Tomato juice." (Because I am an adult and adults drink weird things like that when they fly.)

"Yum."

So here is where the snacks come in. If the airlines still were to hand out snacks, the snacks would absorb some of the liquid in five-year-olds' systems. Then they would not have said leaky five year olds using the toilet so much while the seat belt light is illuminated. And then the leaky five year olds would not have so many opportunities to climb in and out of their seats and invariably spill that purloined tomato juice on themselves while the responsible parent is in the toilet. I'm a big proponent of bringing back airplane snacks on domestic flights, even if it tags a few more bucks on my ticket.

Proof #3

International carriers have obviously decided that feeding us while over the world's oceans is wiser than throwing our starved bodies out the plane and so we receive a meal while over the Atlantic. However, this brings upon us a new, unique challenge. "I don't need any help!" Tehva roars from her seat, which is, conveniently, three over from my own.

"Tehva, that is hot food and you have to let me help you open it." Tian and Silas very helpfully pretend to burn themselves on their own entrees, and then Silas pretends that the steam escaping from his mashed potatoes and beef chunks has scalded him permanently, much to the chagrin of the passengers in front of us.

Tehva acquiesces but makes it very clear that that is the only help I am allowed to give her during meal time. There will be no mother-guided opening of anything else and so, entree opened, I sit back to enjoy my own meal to the steady whoosh of flushing toilets (they put us right next to the toilets for ALL legs of our trip this time. I think Tehva's reputation precedes her.)

Cue blood-curdling scream. I look in front of us for the infant that has been screaming on and off for the last hour. Hmmm...that baby is sleeping. Weird. Surprisingly the scream is coming from Tehva, whose face is covered in what looks like mashed potatoes and, less surprising is the fact that I am pinned into my seat by the beverage cart on one side, Silas on the other, and an airplane meal on a tray that is so close into my body that I am nearly wearing it as a cravat.

By some super-human feat of flexibility and strength, I extract myself from my seat, launch myself over Silas and Tian, and reach Tehva who is, it turns out, covered in pepper parmesan ranch salad dressing. It turns out she (surprise!) did need help opening other things on her tray, evidenced by the fact that she doused her face with what was supposed to go on her food.

I take her into the bathroom as she raises the dead with her shrieks, only to discover that her right eye is full of both peppercorns and parmesan chunks. As a matter of fact she sheds salad dressing from her eyes all the way through London.

So that is the pudding of which I speak. My point is proven, evidenced by the image you no doubt are now holding of Tehva at a Nascar race, Bud in hand, hooting at the drivers to "Stop! Just for a second! I have to go pee really bad!"