Going Number Three

As it would happen, I was a bit of a straggler in getting to Costa Rica. My brother Wayne and sister-in-law Leslie left an entire week earlier so that they could take part in a week-long diving excursion (and, in Leslie's case, an unending bout of sea-sickness) at a remote island west of Costa Rica. And, since she didn’t fit in their baggage, they decided to leave my niece Ellie at home with my Mom. This meant that I would be responsible for transporting Ellie from Houston to Costa Rica, which consisted of a 3.5 hour flight, plus a 3.5 hour ride on a mini-bus from San José (Costa Rica’s capital and our port of entry) to Quepos. Ellie didn’t fit in my baggage either, so we decided that she’d sit next to me for the entire journey.

My mom took us to the airport, and was immediately smitten by the sight of the chain of baggage and humanity that we made as we walked toward security. After we cleared security, however, it was clear that Ellie was less smitten by the process:

Ellie (putting on her shoes): Ca-tin, where is the car for the plane?

Me: The car? Oh, you mean the cart they use to drive people to the plane?

Ellie: Yeah. Where is it?

Me: Well, Ellie, we don’t get to ride on the cart. We have to walk.

Ellie: Why can’t we ride?

Me: Um, well, you see, the cart is intended for old people.

Ellie (wholly unconvinced by my answer): You’re old.

This was going to be a long trip.

Once airborne, I was horrified to discover that all of Ellie’s electronic toys (portable DVD player, Leapster, etc.), all of which were virtually guaranteed to keep her occupied for hours on end, had no battery power. So, the next 3.5 hours consisted primarily of trying to entertain her and, naturally, placating her rigorous food demands:

Me: Okay, Ellie, here’s the lunch that the nice lady brought for us.

Ellie: What is it, Ca-tin?

Me: That’s a very good question. I think maybe it’s a sandwich. A chicken sandwich.

Ellie: I don’t want it. It’s yucky.

Me (desperate): Well, how about this brownie? Will you eat this?

Ellie: Yeah. That’s yummy!

Me (quite relieved): Okay then. Well then you can take mine and I’ll ask the flight attendant to bring you another.

Ellie: That’s three brownies (She held up three fingers to make sure I understood the gravity of the situation.)! Okay, but you can’t tell Daddy that I had three brownies, or I’ll get in trouble.

Me: There are going to be lots of things we don’t tell Daddy, Ellie.

Later, we arrived at the beach house, where Ellie issued a rather novel request:

Ellie: Ca-tin! I need to go potty.

Me (putting on my bravest face): Okay! You bet! I’ll bet you’re really good at tha…

Ellie (interrupting me): Yeah. I am.

Me: Right. So, do you need to go Number 1 or Number 2?

Ellie: Number 3.

Me (after a pregnant pause): Um, do you have some orifice I don’t know about? Your Mommy and Daddy really should have included that in the briefing. What’s a Number 3?

Ellie: That’s when you go Number 1 and Number 2!

Me (intrigued and rather bemused): Oh, I see. Do you have to go Number 1, then Number 2, or do you go Number 2 first?

Ellie (rolling her eyes): It doesn’t matter, Ca-tin.

Me (trying to engage her in spite of the questionable conversation matter): Oh, I see. Well, what if you go Number 1, then Number 2, then Number 1? Is that a Number 4?

Ellie (clearly losing patience with my inane questions): No, Ca-tin. That’s yucky.

Me: Right. Sorry.

Ellie: That’s okay. I forgive you.