My toddler is newly potty trained. It was quiet the hurdle to jump.

If you’ve done it, you’ll remember the fun. If you’re going through it, I sympathize. If you’re not at that stage yet, your turn will come.

I suppose every stage has its ups and downs. I love not having to carry an extra set of diapers and sniff an extra bottom; wondering if I’ve stepped on dog poo or if someone is packin’ a #2 in their diaper.

In exchange, I bring a backup pair of tiny underwear and a change of pants. Fair trade.

What I didn’t anticipate was what I would encounter in place of the change table.

We’re all familiar with the public change table; home to many a dirty bum. Not my favourite place to lay down my precious, recently bathed, sweet smelling child; but alas it has to be done when out and about.

Now that my daughter has discovered her new found, diaper free ‘grown-up-ness’, she is fascinated by toilets other than our own. Whether we’re at a friend’s house, doctor’s office, grocery store, shopping center or a restaurant; she wants to check out what’s going on in that bathroom.

So where ever we go, it’s only a matter of time before I hear, “pee pee Mama.” There are times when I know she’s just curious and wants to see whether the bathroom has automatic taps or not, but as a newbie to the potty training game, I’m not about to call her bluff.

So off to the rest room we go, locking ourselves into the tiny, germ infested cubical. When you enter these cubicles, you tend to think you’re in your own private office; that no one can hear you.

Wrong.

Just like we can all see that guy picking his nose in his car, thinking he’s invisible because he’s in the confines of his vehicle. The bathroom stall works much the same way. You feel alone, but you very much are not.

There’s nothing that grosses me out more than public washrooms. So as my daughter and I enter the stall, in our false illusion of privacy, I go into full on germaphob Mom mode. Only my child is bilingual, so to be sure my message is hitting home I spew out a mish-mash, Franglish, turret like verbal diarrhea, “Don’t touch anything. Ce n’est pas propre. Off the floor! Il y a les microbes. Let me cover the seat. Touche pas! Hands off the toilet! Don’t lick that!” Each command getting louder and slightly more manic than the last.

It’s always a little embarrassing when you open to the stall door to face the audience you’ve had listening in on the entire neurotic dialog you’ve been having with your two year old.

Bashfully, I divert eye contact and hope that this time, we can just quickly wash our hands, instead of turning the entire sink area into a Wet & Wild water park; resulting in me finally getting the morning shower that I desperately need.

A child’s curiosity and imagination are beautiful things. I love to watch my children explore, learn, imagine and create. But I hate public washrooms. They completely gross me out. I do not want to foster any of this creativity or exploration within the confines of a public toilet. So if you hear me in there; behind the false security of our bathroom stall, don’t worry, I’m not always this crazy, I’m just trying to save my offspring from some disgusting bathroom contracted disease.