“I need you,” he sighs.
Don’t lock your doors and switch your browser to Incognito yet, y’all. It’s just my four-year-old on the other side of the bathroom door, needing me to poke a straw in his millionth juice box.
It’s an age-old story that we moms know all too well. I’m sure if you go back in obscure history you’d see that even the cave-mommas were subjected to their offspring rushing to the designated toilet-tree just to ask if they could ride the family sabertooth. Nevermind that cave-daddy was sitting on a nearby rock, scratching his backside and watching grass grow. Because, obviously, mom grunts, “YES, GET OUT OF MY FACE,” BETTER.
To be honest, I’m not really sure where to place the bathroom creeper blame. Is it my fault for dragging their baby swing into the bathroom with me just so I could shower when they were small? Is it the obligatory, “Herd all the children into the bathroom so they don’t flood the joint” mentality? Actually, that second one is pretty legit. They’ve both been known to flood bathrooms. THANKS, KIDS.
Lately, I blame my eight-year-old who has become an expert bathroom lock picker. No, he’s not creepin’ on people who are using the facilities. He only does it to me and only when Connor has been whining for 2+ minutes about aforementioned juice boxes — or anything else, for that matter. “Moooom. He just won’t quit whiniiiing,” he, himself, whines. But that’s another post for another day.
In the way of motherhood privacy, there is no such thing as “privacy”. The only me time I get these days is when a child’s nose is pressed into the corner of our bathroom or a fitting room. “If they can’t see me, I can’t see them.” (Yes, I know that’s not the saying and, yes, I know that doesn’t actually work. But I’m doin’ what I got to do.) For the past approaching nine years, I have been watched closer than a Russian spy. My kids know no boundaries, and if one of them doesn’t one day have a career in the FBI, then I’ll be
sorely disappointed steamed.
I don’t know when bathroom visitation ends, but I’m not seeing a clear end in sight. I’ve got minimally four years left (Mason) until my privacy probation ends with no chance of parole. What I don’t understand is why this glorious potty booty call doesn’t happen to my husband. IT NEVER HAPPENS TO HIM. No one ever busts up in the bathroom when homeboy is taking a shower. No one slides notes under the door for him asking when he’ll be done. No one goes in full Kramer-style with a mango and the TV remote asking for a hamburger (that actually happened). They leave him the hell alone. There have been no threats issued. No discussion. They just… leave him to his devices (read: cell phone).
I gave birth to these children. My dignity has long since gone down the toilet. My body has gone to crap. My patience has been washed down the drain. AND I JUST WANT TO URINATE IN PEACE, DAMNIT.
“Safeword is, ‘Paw Patrol’,” she mumbles to herself, as she zips up her pants and shuffles, defeated, to the living room.