Life's in the Toilet, Part 2: The Battle of Kennesaw Mountain

Last week I took my four-year old son for a hike up Kennesaw Mountain Battlefield Park, north of Atlanta. It is a place where Sherman, frustrated by his need to perform complex maneuvers to out-flank Johnston’s Confederate army, launched a frontal assault in searing summer heat against Confederate troops in prepared positions. It was a minor disaster for the Union. End of lecture. Now it is a place where suburban Atlantans, frustrated by their own obesity, launch assaults against their frontal fat and allow their dogs to defecate where brave men died. I want my son to get an appreciation for the past and its meaning to today without having to force it down his throat.

He did very well on the climb up the mountain (it is a mile long hike with a moderate grade). He hoped to see animals. Counting the ant and three birds, we only saw four. He also hoped to get high enough to touch the sky. After starting up the trail, he queried, "Where's Momma?"
"At home."
"Where's ... [his sister]?"
"At home with Momma."
"Why?" (He has recently entered the "why" phrase. This would be fine except that he uses it completely inappropriately about 60% of the time. Example: "Would you like a Pop Tart for breakfast?" "Why?" or "Did you enjoy your walk?" "Why?")
"Well, today is sort of a guy's day out."
He was quiet for a moment before asking, "Women can't come here?" Then I realized that we had only seen about five other people on the trail at that point; they had all been men.

We snacked on some mixed nuts and bottled water while sitting on a bench about halfway up. He talked about his hopes of seeing an eagle. We continued up the mountain. He only brought up the possibility of Daddy carrying him when we were almost to the summit. I told him no, and he let it go.

We had a good time at the summit until he suddenly wanted to leave and go home. At first, I was flummoxed. I had thought that he was having a fine time. Uh oh, too much water. He had to go. There is no bathroom at the summit. That means a hike down the mountain and the use of a public bathroom. Reluctantly, I tried to talk him into the use of a tree (despite my respect for the site, bladder emergencies of four-year olds trump all. I think this is different than purposely bringing a dog, knowing what will probably happen). He had just christened his first tree the previous week in the back yard (see my wife's account here). I might have succeeded if the trail hadn't been so busy.

The trooper bravely led the way down the mountain in what would be called by future historians, the 2nd Battle of Kennesaw Mountain. The commanding officer could barely keep up with the advance of the trooper. Though morale was low, the trooper never complained or even acknowledged what the problem was, but it was clear with every step that he was in anguish. After chatting his way up the mountain, he descended in an almost impenetrable silence. At one point, stepping down off of a rock, he paused with a pained expression on his face, "Wait" he said. His courage was waning, and I wondered if he could hold off the enemy. The crisis passed, and he pressed on to bottom at a record setting pace.

The real struggle began at the base of the mountain. The trooper has a fear of public restrooms. Well, so does high command, but for much different reasons. He hates loud noises. Many of the toilets in public restrooms are equipped with a small ramjet capable of flushing waste into another dimension. Some are equipped with motion sensors that automatically flush the toilet. Put the two together and you have a possessed porcelain beast in the eyes of one small trooper who is barely taller than the commode.

At this point, the trooper flagged and sounded the retreat, but retreat was not acceptable to the commanding officer. With an inspiring speech about the possibility of a juice box upon completion of the mission, he rallied the trooper into the restroom without bloodshed. Command pushed open the door of a stall, which immediately set off the motion sensor and, thank God, a reasonable, almost peaceful, flush. It was a beautiful sound. Still skeptical, the trooper asked, "Is it loud?" He entered the stall while the commander prayed that the motion sensor wouldn't set off another flush. If it did while the trooper was in an awkward position, it could set the cause back for years. Mercifully, the toilet waited until the trooper stepped away to pull up his pants before it flushed. The trooper began evasive maneuvers even though his uniform was not properly arranged. Knowing he was too concerned with the toilet to finish dressing, the commander helped him get arranged. While standing in the stall door, it went off for the third time. The trooper looked at his cold nemesis and said with a tone of complete exasperation, but not fear, "Again?" It was a challenge. The trooper had won, and he knew it. The battle was over and he had vanquished the foe. He got his juice box for valor in the car on the way home.

My petition to the National Park Service to erect a historical marker at the base of the mountain commemorating the charge of the light bladder has, so far, been ignored. Offers to pay for a plaque on the door of the stall where so much was shed have been met with silence.

He never saw an eagle.

Peace