There are a few things in life that I have always felt were inviolate privileges. Like toileting. Specifically, privacy during toileting. I feel that privacy during toileting is a reasonable expectation to have, as a 30-something Aussie girl. But, alas, I have finally conceded defeat. Much to the satisfaction of my 3 dependants, when it’s just the 4 of us at home, I have given up trying to close the toilet door when I am going about my business.
Mysti and Maggie have been trying to breach this barrier for months. Each time I entered the ‘Room of Smells’, I knew that when I emerged, I should expect to see at least one but usually two, hairy little faces waiting for me, indignant that I had dared to make myself inaccessible. And if the girls felt that I was dawdling behind that closed door, I would hear a clawed knocking to let me know it was time to hurry up and flush. I was resolute though – the door stayed closed until I was darned good and ready.
Angus, to his credit, has managed to wear me down in less than 3 months. Please don’t mistake this for any sort of maternal attachment or bonding. No, no, this is all about self preservation. You see, my little Squawky McSquawkerson does not like to be left alone and is prepared to fight dirty – the pitch of his screams can get so shrill that it causes me physical pain, so much so that on a few occasions I have actually been driven to smack myself in the head in an attempt at diversion therapy. (So to paint the picture, I am sitting in that small ‘Room of Smells’ all by myself, pants around my ankles and slapping my ear while my son screeches on the other side of the door. Parenting breeds insanity.)
I have tried putting him in the pram and parking him right outside the bathroom door so that he can hear me talk – “Time for ‘Tinkle Talk’, Angey! Please!!??”. Nope. Not good enough for Squawky – I must be kept in sight. Otherwise, Mumma Bec, it’s time for your ears to bleed.
So now, when I want to go potty, Angus must first be set up in his bouncer with appropriate vantage to keep an eye on me. And Mysti and Maggie sit about 2 metres behind him, also watching.
I guess, in a way, I can understand their sense of entitlement. Every morning in the early hours of dawn, I trail behind the girls on our morning walk and pounce with a plastic bag to collect every poo. And Angus; well, bloody hell – I log all of his diaper deposits so that I can track and analyse his downstairs business. (As at this point in writing, I can report that since arriving home from hospital, Angus has had his diaper changed 699 times).
So now when the 4 of us are home alone together, everyone’s business is everyone’s business. C’est la vie…