It’s Spring Break, and the COVID-19 pandemic is still in full swing and my kids (one of them high risk for the disease) are still not eligible for the vaccine.  We’ve been sheltering at home for 25 months now.  It feels like forever.  My in-laws, however, moved and we wanted to see their new house – and visit with them.

Instead of a three-hour drive, which had been our usual time to see them, we had an eight-hour drive.  At least, that’s what Google said we’d have.  Throw in a few bouts of car sickness, missed turns, lunch, and young kids who desperately needed a playground and/or a bathroom (and parents who needed a break,) and it took us closer to 12 hours.

Now, we are in something I call the frozen tundra (though technically, it’s not) trying to figure out something COVID-safe we can do together.  My in-laws are amazing, and already have a list of things they had brainstormed for us, but now was the hard part of deciding.  One of the hardest things about traveling with young at any time is factoring in the nap schedule – this is still true during a pandemic.

We decide on the zoo.  Zoos are mostly outside, so we’ve gone to zoos several times during the pandemic.

The only problem with the zoo is that it’s supposed to rain in a few hours.  We all take hurried turns in the bathrooms, change a diaper, pack a diaper bag, and dash to the cars.

The zoo is small, but free (donations recommended, which my father-in-law happily pays.)  There is a bison standing near the fence at the entrance.  He snorts at my husband, which the kids think is funny.  The zoo also has big cats and birds of prey, which are neat.  The cougar is fast asleep in easy view.  Even asleep, it looks fierce.

Probably the neatest exhibit is the fish rearing pond.  Salmon swim up the nearby river to spawn, so the zoo set up a fish rearing pond.  Over 5.7 million fish have been raised and released from this rearing pond.  There’s an underwater camera, so we can watch the fish.  We are all fascinated.  My four-year-old daughter has claimed that she wants to be a deep-sea diver someday, so she is especially excited.

Probably because of the impending rain, the zoo is mostly empty.  We allow our toddler son to walk without holding anyone’s hand as long as he stays near us and obeys us when we tell him to stop.  He does a good job until tries to climb under the fence to see the vulture closer – my father-in-law grabs him as he’s making his way under the gate toward the electric fence.  I decide I should hold his hand.

Suddenly, someone has to pee again.  As a group, we walk quickly.  There’s a building that might have a bathroom in it.  We go inside.

There’s no one in there, so we don’t put masks on; we think it will be a quick in and out.

My daughter sees an African Spurred Tortoise sprawled out under a heat lamp.  She thinks it’s amazing.  I think the tortoise doesn’t have a care in the world, and I’m jealous. 

The tortoise doesn’t move, but a stream of pee suddenly starts to slowly ooze toward a drain in the floor.  Once I tell my daughter what it is, she thinks it’s hilarious.

As I watch with the kids, the other adults determine there is no bathroom in the building.  The person who needs to use the facilities continues the hunt, and the rest of the group remains inside the building so it’s easier to meet back up.

Around the corner, there’s a classroom set up.  By the far wall, there is a honey bee hive with glass walls.  I walk over and watch the bees crawl over each other in a frenzy.  They waggle their dance of communication, looking like they had too much coffee.  They look as trapped as I feel: trapped in a world of chaos.

There’s a sign that says the queen bee is painted red – the paint is not harmful to the bees, the sign assures me.

I immediately begin to search for the queen.

After a few minutes, I give up.  I’ve left my husband with our two young kids long enough.

I go find our daughter, knowing she’d be fascinated by the bees.  She’s back by the tortoise, which still hasn’t moved.  The trail of urine is still making its way to the drain.

I think to myself that I wish I could pee on life’s problems.  I’d pee on the pandemic, on racial injustice, on the political upheaval… just for starters.  Thinking of all that’s going on makes me wonder about masks again.  There’s still no one inside, but we don’t know who was in here before us.  When did I become a germaphobe? 

Sheltering at home is making me weird.  Who thinks about peeing on a pandemic?

I take my daughter to see the bees.  She likes them, but still prefers the peeing tortoise.  It’s then, though, that I notice the plastic tube that connects the bee hive to the outside through the wall.  A few bees are crawling down the tube – some leaving, some coming.

Even the bees need out.