The diaper exploded in the motel swimming pool. Then the offending infant sealed the deal by throwing up in the shallow end. They closed the pool for cleaning. Our children returned to the motel room, downcast.
We had chosen this motel, a classic 1950’s two story walk-up, specifically because it had a pool. That was our treat for the kids as our family toured the historic battlefield of Gettysburg. Our only fallback now was the allure of the make-it-yourself waffle iron at the breakfast bar the next morning.
That night the Boy Scout troop in the room above us began bouncing off the walls. Their leaping and tackling reverberated like thunderclaps in our room below. At 10:00 PM I went up and kindly asked them to be quiet. At 11:00 PM I did the same. By midnight, I had had enough. I threw back the covers. My wife immediately registered concern. She knows that when Panda dad switches to Grizzly dad, it can get unpleasant. I assured her I was under control. I strolled purposefully up to the second floor walkway in my plaid boxer shorts and thin sleeping t-shirt.
I knocked on the door. The room went silent. I knocked again. A boy scout opened the door and peered out, wide-eyed.
“Where is the scoutmaster?”, I asked calmly.
The scout became immediately contrite. “I am sorry”, he said. “We’ll tone it down”.
“Please answer my question”, I said with Vladimir-Putin-lack-of-emotion and half-lidded eyes, “and tell me where I can find the scoutmaster”.
“I promise we’ll be quiet”, said the scout.
“Son”, I said, “I am going to knock on every door on this floor until I find the scoutmaster. You can either come with me, or I can march back down here with him when I find him. What’s it going to be?”
Before he could answer, a door opened further down the walkway. Out stepped a man who turned out to be the scoutmaster. He looked puzzlingly at my boxer shorts. I explained calmly and politely what was going on. He said he’d take care of it. He did. Not another peep out of those guys.
The next morning our family was sitting in the breakfast room eating waffles. At the table beside us were several obese men. They were dressed in Civil War period uniforms and had waffle batter on their chins. As they discussed their upcoming battle re-enactment one of them remarked, “You know what I don’t understand? It’s those wussies that re-enact the War of 1812. I mean, that was just a totally sucky war, man”. Our family quietly challenged one another to think of anything less cool than battle re-enactment guys with waffle drizzle on their chins talking trash about other battle re-enactment guys. Our son identified “diapers exploding in a motel pool” as being way, way less cool.
In walked the scout troop. The entire troop came up and apologized. They looked us in the eyes. They shook our hands. They took responsibility. Later, we commended the scout leader on their exemplary morning conduct, and we asked him to convey our sincere appreciation.
[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]