There I was.
Sun on my face.
Cold drink in my hand.
Pool water sparkling like it had been edited for a travel brochure.
I had achieved peak vacation.
That’s when my wife appeared.
She was walking toward me with purpose. Our three-year-old trailed beside her. She didn’t look relaxed. She didn’t look impressed with my relaxation either.
“There’s an emergency,” she said.
Now, when someone says emergency at a Caribbean resort, your mind goes to shark attack. Missing passport. Fire. Not… this.
I stared at her blankly.
She didn’t argue. She didn’t yell. She simply pointed at our son’s swimsuit.
And friends, that is when my world changed.
I sprang up like I had been launched. Grabbed the boy by the arm and started power-walking toward the bathroom. Halfway there, I noticed something.
A small trickle.
An off-colour trickle.
Running down his leg.
I picked up speed.
He, meanwhile, was happily chatting about buckets. Just buckets. Living his best life.
I was not living mine.
Resort staff watched me hustle past like I was smuggling state secrets. Concerned looks everywhere. One lady actually took a step forward like she might intervene. I made eye contact that said, Do not ask questions you don’t want answers to.
We reached the bathroom.
I peeled off the shorts.
And there it was.
A swim diaper that had once been white and yellow… now a deep, unnatural chestnut. The kind of colour that doesn’t occur in nature without consequences.
I tried to lower the diaper gently.
It did not want to be lowered.
It clung to him like it had signed a long-term lease. I tugged.
And then it let go.
Violently.
What happened next can only be described as a Jackson Pollock painting. It was on my hands. My feet. The floor. The walls. I’m still not sure how it reached the walls.
My son giggled.
I reached for the toilet paper in a calm, mature, fatherly way.
I began wiping.
And then the toilet paper retracted.
Back into the dispenser.
Which was locked.
Of course, it was locked.
I stared at it like it had betrayed me personally. I tried to pry it open. I shook it. I may have whispered threats.
That’s when someone knocked on the door.
A polite knock at first.
Then another.
Then another.
Three separate people, all apparently very eager to enter what had now become a full crime scene.
I considered my options.
Option one: Open the door and confess everything.
Option two: Move to another country.
I chose option three: Break into the dispenser like a desperate raccoon.
By some miracle, it popped open. I grabbed the roll like it was treasure and began the long, humbling process of cleaning everything. And I mean everything.
The boy stood there, humming.
I wiped.
And wiped.
And wiped.
All while the knocking continued. A steady reminder that the world outside that door had no idea what horrors had unfolded within.
Eventually, somehow, the bathroom looked… normal-ish.
I dressed the child. Washed my hands seventeen times. Took a deep breath.
Then I opened the door.
Three guests stood there. Silent. Waiting.
I walked past them with the quiet dignity of a man who has seen things.
Outside, an army of housekeeping staff stood nearby. Watching. Assessing.
I shuffled toward the outdoor shower to rinse my feet when one of the housekeeping staff hurried after me.
She held out my hat and sunglasses.
I had left them behind.
She smiled. Grinned, actually. And gave me a small wink before heading back inside with a mop.
That wink saved me.
Because in that moment, standing barefoot under a resort shower while my son happily splashed beside me, I realized something.
Even when it feels hopeless…
Even when you are one locked toilet paper dispenser away from tears…
You get through it.
You breathe.
You clean.
You survive.
And later — maybe not that same day, maybe not even that same week — you laugh.
Parenting has a way of humbling you in public. It strips away pride. It tests your reflexes. It teaches you that a three-year-old can, in fact, defy physics.
But it also reminds you of something simple.
This too will pass.
Preferably in a toilet next time.
And one day, when he’s older and taller and pretending he never needed help with anything, I’ll tell him about the Great Caribbean Incident.
I’ll tell him how brave his father was.
How strong.
How resourceful.
I may leave out the part about almost crying.
For now, I’ll just say this:
If you’re in the middle of your own locked-dispenser moment, hang on.
You’ll get through it.
You might even laugh.
Even if you’re slightly traumatized by the drawer-filling abilities of someone under four feet tall.
The CJBuzz 