The professor told me I should write a book. And I looked at him with a frown on my face and said ‘about what’. And he said (plumbing the depths of his creative mind) ‘about your life with three boys.’ I thought about it for two seconds, ‘I will call it I want my own bathroom‘. ‘That’s a great title,’ he agreed.
Except, of course, I was being sarcastic. About the writing a book bit, not about the wanting my own bathroom bit.
We live in an age where magazines and drool-inducing websites (yes, you, Pinterest) all encourage us towards this notion of a ‘dream home’. Complete with a ‘dream kitchen’ that costs as much as a small house in most countries. And master suites large enough to hold all the Duggars.
Me, I have simple dreams. I want a kitchen that has more than two feet of countertop (preferably not of cheap, stain-absorbing beige Formica) and I want my own bathroom.
As in, the four men of the house can share a bathroom or some sort of outhouse in the yard, but I want a space (tiny is fine) with a door that closes; where people with xy chromosomal configurations may not trespass.
During the first week or so of our married life, the professor and I discussed household duties. He agreed to do dishes. I agreed to clean bathrooms. And, for the better part of fifteen years, I enjoyed the better part of that arrangement. He washed dishes at least once a day while I cleaned the bathroom(s) once a week. Ish.
But then we had three boys. And my once a week cleaning gave way to once a day cleaning. Or more.
And I’m not even talking about the toilet. That is a matter entirely too delicate for this forum.
I came home one day last week, after the professor had been in charge of his offspring for an hour or two. I entered the bathroom – the bathroom all five of us share. The soap dispenser I’d refilled the previous day….was lying on the floor. Practically empty.
That, my friends, is a very bad sign. It means ‘someone’ named Percy had had some alone time in the family bathroom. And possibly squirted soap all over the counter. And the strangely squishy-sticky floor. And the bathtub.
I didn’t even realize the bathtub had been soaped until the next day when it was time for my twice-weekly shower and I.nearly.died. We’ve all heard about people falling in the shower and seriously injuring themselves. Personally, I was always skeptical about those ridiculously uncoordinated people who hurt themselves in their very own bathtubs. But now I know: those people had children who squirted copious amounts of clear liquid soap onto the bottom of the tub.
And then….there’s the toothpaste. Are my children the only ones who, every time they brush their teeth, leave behind clumps of toothpaste in and around the sink along with those tell-tale white stains on the counters?
If I had financial backing and a scientific mind, I would make it my life’s work to invent one thing: invisible, non-staining toothpaste.
Seriously, the mom who figures that one out, will be able to build her own house, never mind her own bathroom.