The Childcare Commute

What happens on the commute, stays on the commute. Until now. These are real things that really happened to me earlier in the week.

THERE

Before leaving the house, I asked R about seventeen times if he needed to go to the toilet.

I don’t need to go.

This wasn't completely unreasonable. The kids still wear a nappy overnight, so he might have gone just before waking up. It's also only about 40 minutes door-to-door, so we often just skip the toilet altogether in the mornings.

About one minute after we get on the train, he says quietly, “I’ve done a wee wee”.

It’s early and the train is quite empty, with only two other passengers standing at the end of the carriage nearby. They either haven’t heard his announcement or don’t care.

I crouch down in front of the pram and start saying very quietly how disappointed I am he didn’t tell me he needed to go. He normally tells us. If he had told me this time, I could have got him to pee at the toilet at the station and missed this train. Or I could have got him to hold to the next stop or even the final stop ten minutes away and used the toilet then. Or, in a worse case, completely desperate scenario, he could’ve peed in my thermos drink bottle, which I would then later set on fire.

Now I more closely inspect the damage. His pants are soaked. So is his pram seat, because I had just decided that after three weeks of no accidents anywhere, they are toilet trained, and so they don’t need to sit on old towels anymore.

I then say how I can’t do anything until school so he’s just going to have be wet until then. Harsh but true.

Then after the lecture, I notice it.

There is a river of piss snaking across the floor of the carriage.

Those towels would be really handy right now.

Remarkably nobody else has noticed. I know this because there is no way you could be so polite as to stay around without any comment.

I spend what feels like hours wondering about what to do. I do have two blankets that I keep in the pram for the boys on really cold mornings. I use one of them to mop the floor, then throw it back underneath the pram. I'll get a plastic bag for it later.

At his school, I change him. As he was sitting down, every single item of clothing he is wearing is wet. That includes four layers up top – singlet, t-shirt, hoodie and jacket. I don’t have spares of any of those except the t-shirt.

BACK

It started with good intentions.

I'm second in line for the lift down to the platform, behind a young woman with two suitcases. Then behind me a woman with another pram queues, then more people arrive. The lift doors finally open, and the woman with the suitcases generously offers to allow the two prams on first.

This is a mistake.

I'm going to the bottom. The woman with the suitcases is going to the bottom. But the other pram is getting off at the top platforms. When the door opens there she is wedged between my double pram besides her, and the suitcases in front.

It takes awhile for her to manoeuvre out. I manage to get out of the way first and am holding the door open, while the two women are slowly making it work. Everything is fine. Then suddenly I hear yelling. I see this little older man, maybe in his sixties, with a grey beard. He is dressed all in black. He looks like a gnome at a goth convention. He's bellowing "move!" as the two women struggle. It's somewhat threatening.

It's not far off peak hour in a tiny lift, and I've got a double pram containing a plastic bag filled with urine-soaked clothes. I decide I'm not letting anyone cop his shit.

As the woman with the pram is able to step out of the lift, I tell him calmly but firmly to "be more patient."

Then he hits the button to go back up to the top. So he's going up in the down lift. I add, "especially when you're going the wrong way".

We reach the bottom. He's standing in the middle of the doors, before unhelpfully taking a half step to the side. This leaves me about five centimetres clearance. So as I wheel the pram out I say, "you're yelling at people to get off faster and now you can't even get out of the way."

I step out onto the busy platform. Then I hear it. Then I see the heads looking toward the lifts. I can't make out exactly what is being yelled - he has a thick accent, and he may not be speaking only in English.

But I swear part of it is him yelling, "Australian beer sucks!"

I'm now cracking up. I tell some old ladies who look sympathetic what happened. Then I finally look back to the lift. He's still there, the only person in the lift. The doors have reopened, and he's angrily smashing the buttons to close them again.

He's spent longer here than the tangle with the pram and suitcases took to clear. If he waited for the lift to go down and back up before stepping on he would've got there faster.