Only Child in the House

One of the reasons I wanted a new house was so I wouldn’t have to share a bathroom with my kids. Sure, we had two bathrooms in the old house. One was even right next to my daughter’s room. But she wouldn’t use it. Too dark and scary, she said. I’m not sure how she came to that conclusion because the mirror was lined with big round bulbs. I can only imagine that the previous owner had some sort of diva complex and liked to imagine the bathroom as her dressing room on Broadway. You might risk burning out your retinas, but dark it was not. It was small and only had a shower making it unusable to bathe a toddler which my daughter was at the time. So we shared the other bathroom with her requisite toys that seemed to procreate overnight until there was exactly 6 square inches of clear space in the tub to take a shower. It’s humbling to take a shower up to your knees in floating Elmos and foam letters, not to mention extremely annoying.

After 5 years and another child I swore I would never share a bathroom again with a human under the age of 30. I designed a bathroom in the new house just for the kids, downstairs, between their rooms far, far away from my bathroom. I never go down there unless I absolutely have to. Too dark and scary, indeed. I have to say it’s been absolute, complete and total heaven.

Until now.

Our basement has had some water issues, most of which I don’t want to go into, but suffice it to say that we were forced to move the furniture into storage, rip out all the carpet, jackhammer up the floor and fix the drain tile. The kids, whose rooms are in the lower level (doesn’t that sound nicer than basement?) are upstairs sharing the guest room, now known as the Disaster Area. And they are sharing our bathroom. Again. Only this time it’s worse because there are two of them and they are older.

Sure, there’s toothpaste everywhere including my brush (when I can find it. More on that later). There are puddles of water and everything seems to be wet all the time. There is approximately 6 inches of clear space in the tub and the bath pillow I bought for myself to relax in spa-like bliss is now a raft to rescue my son’s drowning animals. This, I expected.

Now, however, if I want a dry towel I must guard it with my very life and change its location every 3 days as if it’s in some sort of Wetness Protection program. And even then there’s a 75% chance I will step out of the shower dripping wet to find nothing but a heap of wet towels. I don’t know why they can’t get their own towels from the cupboard that’s RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE SHOWER. I also don’t know why they never use my husband’s towel. I even hung my towel up under his and they still took mine. And I know what you are saying. Use his towel. It’s wet, too, as he showers at the ass-crack of dawn before heading off to work at half past the ass-crack and I have issues with showering at that time much less being awake. Or you are saying, can’t you get your own towel from the cupboard? Well, yes, I can and I do. Every day. Until we run out. And no the towels haven’t been washed because the ones that aren’t dripping on the floor are in the Disaster Area and I’m too scared to go in there, too. I may never find my way out. So I stand there, dripping wet, hollering for someone to bring me something to dry off with and no, paper towels are not what I had in mind.

As if the heap ‘o towels wasn’t enough, the little critters leave their clothes in piles all over the floor. Eventually, I get them to pick up but inevitably the little tiny underwear gets forgotten. I discover them when I shuffle in bleary-eyed the next morning and get those tiny little leg holes all tangled in my toes. Hopping on one foot, trying to extricate my foot from Lightening McQueen briefs or Sponge Bob panties is not an activity I recommend for anyone over the age of 35, particularly before noon. How embarrassing to go the ER and have to say I split my head open and broke my ankle tripping over my child’s underwear. I can live without that.

And as if the toothpaste, the water, the towels and the underwear weren’t enough, there are the brushes.

The brushes! They use them like towels. Take one, use it, discard it wherever, forget about it. Next day, take a different brush. Repeat until brushes are all missing and complain to your mother that you can’t possibly brush your hair because you can’t find a brush even though you were the last one to use all of them! I have a drawer, a whole drawer, of brushes that I usually have difficulty closing for all the brushes that is empty now except for a black wide toothed comb I haven’t used since the 80’s. I don’t even know why I have it. Nostalgia perhaps. I suspect all the brushes are in the Disaster Area along with the towels. Which is where they will likely stay until the lower level is back to normal. Luckily the messy look is in for hair. We can do that.

Some people might say that I have problems sharing a bathroom with my kids because I am an only child. These are also the same people who say they can tell I’m Taurus by my stubbornness and that my ideal man is built like a football player so they have no credibility whatsoever.