Once, when I was about four years old and travelling with Dad, we had to stop to find a restroom for me. It was probably late enough that most of the gas stations were closed. Dad found one, but the door to the bathroom was on the outside of the building. He had to ask for a key to open it.
Jenny and Justin waited in the car, I think. Dad and I walked in to find a singularly crummy-looking little bathroom. He looked frantic and told me I couldn't pee yet. I was embarrassed at the thought of using the toilet in front of my dad, but I was so desperate that I didn't really care, and I was displeased that he wanted me to wait. I begged him to just leave, or at least let me pee.
"You can't sit on that, it's filthy," he said, and began ripping toilet paper off and trying to lay it on the toilet seat. He couldn't cover the surface because the paper kept falling off into the water or onto the messy floor. He tried covering it in several different ways. I could see his frustration, but I didn't understand why the toilet offended him so badly, and I continued to plead. After a minute or two, he finally gave up and lifted me onto a seat strewn with segments of toilet paper like sparse paper maché. He looked truly defeated.
I thought he was being pretty silly at the time. Now I think it's one of the sweetest things I remember him doing.
