A friend (bless her) is watching my kids so I can spend a couple hours at the SPU library doing research for a talk I’m giving later this month.

When it’s time for me to head home, I stop at the drinking fountain to refill my water bottle. Since it’s right next to the restroom, I decide I’d better stop in there, too. Once home, I won’t have a chance to use the loo: Luke and Ben haven’t yet achieved object permanence, which means they invariably start crying the moment I walk in the door, like they’re all mad that I’ve been gone, even though they were playing quite happily up till the very second they saw me.

So I push open the restroom door and walk in. There’s a handicapped stall in front of me, and I try never to use those if I have other options. I turn to the other stalls.

Only they don’t have doors. And while I’m standing there wondering why on earth there are no doors, it dawns on me that those aren’t actually toilets attached to the walls.

Yep. I’m in the men’s bathroom.

*****

On this first Friday of May, I am grateful:

1787. That I did not walk in on anyone in the men’s bathroom.

1788. I did not see anyone I knew when I came out of the men’s bathroom.

1789. My sister and I laughed – hard – when I told her the story.

1789. Friends who watch my kids so I can feed my brain.

1790. A delightful read-aloud.

1791. Crabapple blossoms.

And no, I did not take a photo of the urinal I saw at the library (I only wish I had). This hummer is from the Bridgeport BrewPub in Portland, Oregon, where the urinals are taller than Jack. Photo courtesy of my husband.