Wednesday, July 28, 2010
SHE SELLS SANCTUARY
OK. Disclaimer. Best advised not to read this around lunch time. Or Breakfast time. Or Dinner time. In fact, let’s just put out a blanket warning that the following discussion of poo, wee, farts and unidentified stains may put you off your food. Righteo then, let’s go.
I am writing here today about the sad loss I have recently suffered. Something I held very dear to my heart and it has been rudely taken away from me by the people I love the most. That something, is my toilet time. Now, stay with me, it won’t be overly gross, wait, scratch that, it may be a little gross, but the lack of “me” time on the loo is hampering my ability to both function and parent without losing my shit. Literally.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, going to the toilet gave either myself or Phil, Carte Blanche to spend as much time in there, as we wanted. I vividly remember the days when I would see him desperately trying to scope out something to read and thinking to myself, oh bless, we won’t be seeing him for the next 30 minutes or so.
But then we moved here. To the house with one toilet. And the good times no longer rolled. It was like all three children developed a special built in radar that activated their dire need to crap, the minute either Phil or I sat down for some quality time on the toilet.
It got to the point where I seriously considered setting up a ticketing system like the ones they have in the Deli at Coles. Number 61, what can I get you? Oh, a half a kilo of shit and a splash of urine thanks. But then again, this wouldn’t work. When you gotta go, you gotta go and I’m sad to say, our shower copped it more than once. Children and already opened bowels take on a world of their own.
My biggest mistake was thinking that when we acquired our second toilet (after living with one between 5 people for 3 years) that I would find my sanctuary once again. I can truly say that there is no such place in this house. It’s like there is an open all hours sign plastered to my forehead and a flickering open for inspection sign hung above the toilet door when I enter.
It starts the minute I wake up, with the kitten using my leg as a scratching post while I have my first wee of the day. This is also the time Jack bounds out of his room to tell me “I awake Mummy, I had a dood (good) sleep” and simultaneously hugs me as my pants sit around my ankles.
Generally Sam will be roused and will come in to tell me, about 2 inches from my face, that he would like a milo and that he will be in the “new room”. Then I force him to give me a kiss good morning. Keeping in mind, I am yet to leave the toilet seat at this stage. Before I do, there are approximately seven more questions about where each of them are going that day, who will be picking them up and what will be for dinner that night.
I could lock the door, but what would be the point. There would just be constant knocks on the door and lots of “Muuuuum, what are you doing??? A number one or a number two?” Then, inevitably a WWF styled brawl involving at least two of them would erupt on the tiles outside.
In fact, the whole point of the toilet is becoming redundant. Take last night for instance. The kids were well and truly in bed, I tucked the paper under my arm, went into the loo, shut the door, sat down and then proceeded to shall we say, let a few wind parcels go. That's when I hear Phil say this from outside the toilet door “Orrrrh, Ya right?!!” Jesus, if I can’t fart in the freaking TOILET, where can I?
Perhaps it’s time to reacquaint him with the cupcake fart I perfected for my brother so many years ago. Oh yes, I am a layyddeeee.
Oh and the unidentified stain I mentioned in the beginning? Still unidentified but it’s a toss up between vegemite or it's suspicious lookalike. Told you to hold off eating.