Sir Hops-a-Pot

A royal IBS story

For months, I’d been on a strict diet carefully choosing food that wouldn’t upset my stomach or set off one of my horrid migraines. By no means was I a picky eater. I loved food. Food didn’t love me. I had recently made the discovery of a gluten sensitivity. This was a real challenge considering bread was my favorite comfort food.

We were on vacation and despite family taunting me with scones, rye bread sandwiches and fresh baked muffins, I was conquering the pressure like a mountain climber. No way was I risking an attack at the happiest place on earth.

As the cookie crumbles, so did I.

On the fourth day, we arrived at Disney World, Epcot theme park. My strong will kept me gluten-free through Universal Studios, Hollywood Studios and The Magic Kingdom. Each day the dreamscape atmosphere made me feel like I’d stepped into a utopia where nothing could go wrong.

That night was the big fireworks show. We settled outside the German Village. I saw it. That massive gluten sin-sign hanging over my head. There was something about a hot salted pretzel that said, eat me and life will be wonderful. If I was going to cave, it was going to be now. I decided to treat myself. After all, I had a completely clean gut. What was one big fat German pretzel going to do?

There I was, in line marveling under the green vendor’s awning. I bought two just in case someone else wanted some. I was not about to share mine.

The moment I allowed the mouthwatering starch of goodness to hit my taste buds, I thanked God in the heavens above. Life is good. I felt fine. In fact, I felt great. Maybe I was wrong about the cause of my stomach cramping and bloating issues. For goodness sake, I dropped fifteen pounds since the holidays. I could use a few carbs. Last year was stressful. The soft warm dough was my reward for surviving it. Maybe I just needed some white flour baked into a perfect golden twist. I had diligently deprived myself for too long. Walt Disney made life glorious again.

After eating the entire pretzel myself, I did my best to share the remains. But everyone else was busy taking photos and munching on their own purchases. The second pretzel was getting a little limp. What the hell! I proceeded to devour every last crumb of the German delicacy.

Our group included my son, my mom, my step-dad, my brother and his two boys. Outnumbered, my mom and I were the only girls on the trip. We had put up with bodily function jokes during the eighteen-hour drive cramped in a Chevy Traverse on the way to Florida. With three teenage boys, it was the same all week in the parks. No matter, boys are boys. We could put up with the silly joking-around for a relaxing sunny vacation. Everyone got along and no one complained. I must say, we were all having a terrific time, and we only had one day left.

The next morning, we left our mini condo for Animal Kingdom. I was still holding up pretty well and feeling fantastic. Hakuna Matata. No worries. Though I will admit, I had some rumbling in my tummy and a slight amount of discrete lady-like flatulence. Only to be expected, I told myself. I was probably just hungry. I ate breakfast with no serious issues. The day advanced with a little more rumbling. Thankfully, we were outdoors. I had this. I was good.

At five o’clock, I was glad Animal Kingdom closed early. By the time we returned to the condo, I was making a beeline for the bathroom. My innards were extremely unhappy with me. After the passing of ten minutes and two German pretzels, my bowels had released their wrath. From where I sat, I could hear the boys splashing in the pool adjacent to our place. They were having a great time. Lord knows they weren’t the only ones splashing.

I proceeded to finish my business. I flushed. I stood. When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a frog leaping through the swirling sphere. My first instinct should have been to scream. But not me, I opened the door instead and yelled.

“Mom! Get the camera!”

A frog had just jumped out of the toilet onto the lid. I knew, if the frog jumped back in the water, no one would believe me. Needless to say, when someone in my family yells ‘get the camera,’ it means something spectacular has happened. Within seconds, all seven of us were jam-packed in the bathroom marveling over the colossal frog. My mom took pictures. The boys rattled off ‘frog-in-the-oval-office’ jokes and jested how I had pooped a frog. The event continued as my step-dad carefully captured the monstrous amphibian in a Rubbermaid container, while my brother recorded the whole thing on his phone.

“I was sitting on that thing,” was all I could manage to said over and over again. “I can’t believe, I was sitting on that thing!”

We’re from rural northern farm country. We were out of our realm and mesmerized as to how in the world a frog got in the toilet. Poor thing. Google soon confirmed that tree frogs are poisonous.

“I could have died!”

Well, not really, but I could have suffered a rash. Cuban Treefrogs commonly found in Florida secrete toxic mucus from their skin that causes a burning sensation. Now, I was screaming, “I was sitting on that thing! I could have been poisoned!”

Up until that point, no one was aware of my current stomach issue. The frog had come out of the toilet, clean as a whistle. And because I’m a lady, I excrete only lovely fragrances. Therefore, I thought I’d dodged a subject boys marvel to talk about. Unfortunately, my brother upheld his end of being a brother by tormenting me further. He discovered our Cuban Treefrog friend was a chameleon.

Google also supported the fact that depending on their environment, treefrogs have the ability to change color. While playing back the video footage, my beloved brother pointed out to everyone, our frog friend was dark brown when he jumped out of the toilet. After captured and placed on the sidewalk, he turned a gray. When the frog leaped in the grass his color shifted to a bright green.

“What did you eat!?” They laughed. I was never going to hear the end of this.

What was the highlight of the trip? Was it the floating paper lanterns and fireworks on Daytona Beach on the Fourth of July? How about Harry Potter World or the Hulk rollercoaster? Could it have been the Tower of Terror, The 4D Star Wars Ride or The Lion King Show? You might even think, my mom barfing on The Mission Space G-Force Ride would have been the talk of the trip. No. Grandma’s projectile vomit came in second to my live-leaping bowel movement.

On the way home, at a gas station somewhere in Georgia, a plastic frog somehow found its way to my seat in the car. Potty-break pranks aside, I was granted the privilege of naming the harmless frog I could keep forever. A frog is a prince in fairytales. He endures hardship to secure his throne, so I named him Sir Hops-a-Pot.

Seven months later, my birthday cake was presented before me. An angel food cake with three pound cakes stacked behind it. The conglomeration of cakes was smothered with white whip cream to resemble a perfectly shaped commode. Inside my birthday toilet-bowl cake sat two clusters of chocolate-covered peanuts. Leaping out of the center was Sir Hops-a-Pot.

Not all days with an invisible illness are this adventurous. Still, I make the best of it.

It’s a ridiculous life. Find the humor.