Posted in Boys, boys, boys! And did I mention, boys?, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!, Random Rage | Posted on 21-03-2010
Tags: bathrooms, felon, Martha Stewart, police
Last week it seemed like I had a kick me sign on my back. You know how it is– you have one of those weeks where it seems like very little goes right. I know there is very real pain and suffering in the world, so the pity party/beatchfest needs to be commensurate with the situation. I’m not going to lie to you—last week, I would have been happy to just tinkle alone. Doesn’t everyone deserve that tiny bit of personal space? I’ve joked a lot as a wife and mother of three boys, that I’ll get the last laugh when I get all the bathrooms to myself. But that’s not exactly true, and even if it were, not sure I’d want them all anyway. Why? Three boys, plus one man, minus one cleaning lady—you can only imagine the condition of said bathrooms. Martha Stewart would SO not be impressed. (But Martha? You’re a felon. And I? Am not.)
Yes, fine, a college housemate and I did get called down to the campus police at the end of my senior year for a minor transgression. It seems the university looked unfavorably on my housemates and me defacing a campus sign. (Note: it was not an art school.) Typical rookies, we were sloppy in the aftermath which led to our ultimate demise. We made amends to the school by cleaning up said sign and parted ways with the university feeling we had paid our debt to society, I mean, campus.
So Martha, in conclusion, I’m not impressed. Insider trading, while making for a much better story than campus tomfoolery (Is that not one of the best words ever?), is insidious, not prankish. And committing a felony in cashmere and not plaid flannel (It was the 90’s, I was NOT a millionaire like some felons, what do you want from me?) makes you no better, missy! (Although I will say, you’ve always had fantastic hair. No one can take that away from you, Martha!)
So despite my checkered past, I have a squeaky clean criminal record AND I have the bathrooms to myself. I’ve got it going on! Ok, not really because there is not a point during the day, from sun up to sun down, where I could use any of our bathrooms without an audience. Even the baby is on to me, toddling on in like he owns the joint. I feel like saying, listen pal, as long as I’m wiping your tush and dropping huge dinero on Elmo diapers, you do not need to be in here! Why anyone, big or small, would wish to bear witness to my bathroom duties, is beyond me. Sometimes, they even try to offer me food and drink when I’m in the bathroom…a swig of milk from a sippy cup here, a cracker there….and while my heart swells with pride that they are grasping the concept of sharing, we clearly need to review the time and place concept!
Sometimes my husband and I get in small arguments about the aforementioned topic. It usually starts when my kids are screeching like tweens at a Hannah Montana concert or hanging on me like monkeys at the zoo.
“You’re so lucky, hon! You get to drink your coffee in peace on the way to work, and go to the bathroom ALONE. You get to do your biz unsupervised by a two year old! Do you know that little devil just got a smidge out of my reach and squirted out my one tiny tube of Clinique foundation squealing, “This is my makeups, momma!” He never touches the cheap stuff, the little sh*&!
“Hon, seriously? Sometimes I think you think I leave here and go to a party all day!” Define party? If by party you mean, edifice with private bathrooms and unlimited coffee drinks, then yes, fiesta it is!
“No! I do not think it’s a party!” I snarked. “Remember, I did once enjoy paid employment?” Enjoy is a relative term. I enjoyed my paycheck! I enjoyed my hour lunch break! I enjoyed my free internet access!
“I totally get you have a lot of pressure at work. Believe me, I do. It’s just different pressure. Being home is not stressful like working, but I’m telling you straight up, I never had one boss half as demanding at these half pints here!” There was the one actually, but we won’t name names. Bygones!
I totally get working is no picnic—I do recall the rigors of a career. But really, why can’t my husband just admit how awesome peeing alone is? Most moms agree there are definitely plusses and minuses to staying home versus working —that could be a whole book, never mind blog post. But my mom friends who work admit they savor going potty solo at work (just like I readily admit I don’t know how the hell they get their kids where they need to go and manage to get to work on time in one piece), and drinking their coffee while listening to some tunes (and I’m not talking Raffi) on their commutes, so I just don’t know why my husband won’t fess up, too! And maybe, if he’s lucky, he gets to finish a conversation—a sentence even, rehash American Idol at the water cooler, and listen to sports radio—which we all know is Days of Our Lives for guys.
The nerve of my husband, right? Who the hell is he, working hard to put food on the table? No small feat with three boys and this graceful ballerina of a wife.
I understand how it must sound sometimes when he calls from work. Sometimes the timing is good when he calls—once in a while the stars align and the baby is napping while the other two are coloring (Maybe on paper? Maybe on the walls? But who am I to complain if they are quiet?) or, dare I admit lest I suffer the scorn of the anti-tv moms, watching a show—praise be to on demand cable, I heart thee so! Other times, the baby might be howling, my two year old might be sticking a fork in the one electric socket I forgot to cover (Yes, he’s THAT kid and no, I’m not getting mother of the year.) and maybe the five year old is pulling a Caillou (bald whinybag 4 year old Canadian cartoon freak show) and asking the following:
“Do dogs have teeth?”
“Do cats have teeth?”
“Do elephants have teeth?”
“Do cows have teeth?”
“Do chameleons have teeth?”
Yes! Wait, how do you know what a chameleon is? Never mind, yes!!
“Do alligators have teeth? “
“Do rabbits have teeth?”
Maybe at these moments the neighbors have heard me scream, “Serenity now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” and whispered to their minor children not to go near our home because a crazy lady lives there. (I suppose it’s really best I don’t know!)
And a word of advice? If you call here and I answer, “Thank you for calling the insane asylum!!!” you should probably just scream, “Wrong number!” in a foreign accent and hang up! ME-OOOOOWWWWW!!!