Like parents of elementary-school-aged children everywhere, I spent much of this past Saturday at an outdoor sports field, cheering on my 11-year-old daughter. Grace had her first lacrosse games of the spring season.
As many of you know, I work every third weekend at my library, which means I can't be part of one-third of my daughters' weekend activities. For the two-thirds that I can be there for, then...I'm overjoyed to be there, friends. I simply appreciate that time so much.
So: Saturday morning. Stanton, the girls and I were going to be out at the lacrosse field from about 10:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. Four hours, approximately. Thus, I packed us up with everything we needed (based on my past experience) for a successful weekend sports outing: snacks for everyone; water bottles for the girls (I planned to buy coffee somewhere once we get there); foldable, portable camping chairs in case there were no bleachers at the field; and, if there were bleachers, two beach towels to wipe them off, because it's been a rainy past few days.
For good measure, Stanton also threw some umbrellas and an extra rain jacket in the car. Grace, meanwhile, loaded in her equipment bag. It appeared as though—appeared—Team Leddy was prepared and ready to roll.
The four of us arrived around the time we were supposed to. There were, in fact, bleachers, and they were, in fact, a little wet from the recent rain. No problem: I broke out the towels.
Grace began playing her first game. Stanton, Anna and I cheered her on. Then Anna got hungry.
Again, not a problem. I presented my 8-year-old with an array of snack choices: granola bar, yogurt squeezer, homemade Lunchables. Anna dug into a granola bar.
The first game wrapped up around noon; the second game started a little after 1. Grace and Anna began eating their Lunchables. I wasn't hungry, but I could definitely go for some hot coffee.
Also...a bathroom break would be good too.
I had spotted a porta-potty nearby, but it needs to be a Grade A Emergency for Melissa Leddy to use a porta-potty. (Yes, friends, I'll admit: I'm a bit of a diva/wimp about bathroom breaks.)
Solution: I would go to Stewart's.
Now, if you're one of my family members or friends from outside New York who's reading this, you may be wondering what Stewart's is.
Basically, Stewart's is to upstate New York what Wawa is to the Philadelphia/mid-Atlantic region and what Buc-ee's is to Texas. Stewart's is a trusted, local convenience store/gas station that is, arguably, most beloved for its excellent ice cream. (I always carry my Stewart's "Scoop Club card" with me.)
If you're on the road in upstate New York (north of New York City) and in need of a quick pick-me-up or fill-the-gas-tank-up (or clean public restroom that is not a porta-potty), you pull into the first Stewart's you see. New Yorkers as young as 9 months old know this.
Thus... "I'll be right back," I told Stanton. "I'm going to find a Stewart's. Would you like any coffee?"
No, Stanton said.
"Are you sure?"
"Please don't bring me anything back."
Roger that; I headed out.
I put "Stewart's" into Google Maps on my phone, and...right away I ran into trouble. I was on a high school campus I'd never been to before, and Google Maps unhelpfully directed me to "Proceed to the route." But I couldn't find my way out of the huge parking lot.
Somehow, I ended up at the school district bus garage. I stared at row upon row of yellow school buses.
"Proceed to the route," Google Maps repeated for the 15th time.
Agh.
Eventually, I ran into a friend, whom I knew was returning from Stewart's. I flagged her down.
Kindly, she rolled down her window; I pulled up alongside her and did the same. "Hey, where's Stewart's?" I asked.
My friend gave me directions ("I got the Maple French Toast coffee you recommended"!), which I did my best to follow...but my original Google Maps destination, still chirping from my phone, kept telling me to go the opposite way. Because there were multiple Stewart's around me.
"Rerouting...rerouting... Proceed to the route."
Agh, again.
Finally, at long last, I pulled into a Stewart's. My Stewart's, however...did not have a public restroom. Or multiple flavors of coffee, like every other Stewart's I've ever been to during my seven years of living in New York.
"Really?" I asked the front-counter clerk. I wasn't sure which disheartened me more: the lack of a restroom, or the lowly choice of either regular or decaf only (no Maple French Toast, my favorite flavor, in sight!).
I wasn't sure which disheartened me more: the lack of a restroom, or the lowly choice or either regular or decaf only (no Maple French Toast, my favorite flavor, in sight!).
It was after 1 p.m.; Grace's second game would be starting soon. I paid for my regular coffee (a small, not my usual medium, because I still needed to use a restroom) and drove back to the lacrosse field.
"Mel," Stanton greeted me. He and Anna were standing with my friend.
"You found Stewart's!" she said. "I wasn't sure you would."
Of course, I completely understood why she'd think that: I had telegraphed 0 percent confidence during our impromptu parking-lot conversation half an hour earlier.
But... "Not your Stewart's," I half-cried. "The Stewart's I went to didn't have a public restroom."
"Really?"
"Or Maple French Toast coffee!"
My friend made a sympathetic gesture. "You were right; this flavor is really good."
One thing you should know about me, friends: I'm not a jealous person...usually.
You have a newer phone than I do? Drive a nicer car? Live in a bigger house? I don't care about any of that stuff. Things like that simply aren't my priorities.
But...my favorite flavor of Stewart's hot coffee? On a rainy Saturday that I have off from work? And a clean public restroom that isn't a porta-potty, when I desperately need one?
OK, yes, now I'm a green-eyed monster.
"Mel is legitimately jealous of you right now," Stanton told our friend.
"True," I confirmed.
Not long after, Anna said she needed to use the bathroom. At this point, I really did too. It had become...a Grade A emergency.
Regretfully—but bravely—Anna and I made our way over to...the porta-potty.
It had become...a Grade A emergency.
Holding my breath, I opened the porta-potty door.
Gag.
But... "We can do this, honey," I told Anna.
I noticed there was no toilet paper. No problem: At my Stewart's, I had stuffed a bunch of napkins in my purse.
Then I noticed there also was no soap, but a sign: "Last Cleaned in October 2022." Huh.
"Mom?"
I closed my eyes. Shut the door. "I can't do it," I said, kind of to my daughter, but mostly to myself. "I just can't do it."
"Are you done?"
I opened my eyes, looked at another mom. "It's really disgusting," I warned her.
She pulled something cone-shaped out of her tote bag. "Oh, I have a portable urinal," she said.
Anna's eyes bugged out. So did mine.
What the ****?
I have now officially seen everything.
I grabbed Anna's hand. "Let's get out of here."
"What are we going to do, Mom?" Anna wondered. "Tinkle behind a tree?"
I mean, that wasn't the worst idea, but there were kids everywhere; this was a school-related event. I didn't want to do anything inappropriate that might provoke a law-enforcement response.
"How was the porta-potty?" Stanton asked when we returned.
I groaned. "It didn't work out."
Stanton's eyes widened. "You still haven't gone to the bathroom?"
"I'm OK, honey...I'm uncomfortable, but I'm OK."
"I'm not, Dad!" Anna piped up. "I really need to tinkle."
Stanton drove Anna and me to our friend's Stewart's (the good one). We used the public restroom (heaven!). Stanton bought a pack of gummy bears on the way out.
Grace has another lacrosse game next weekend, at another field I've never been to. I already have a game plan: Before we head out there, I'm going to Google nearby Stewart's locations. I'm going to confirm they have public restrooms (and Maple French Toast coffee).
I'll be ready.
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