Fantasies of a Detached Bathroom

When looking for a new house most people look for specific characteristics to suit their likes and dislikes.  For some, the most important aspect might be the number of bedrooms.  Others might be more concerned with the property.  Some people even get specific enough to only look at homes with an attached garage.  Not me though.  I’m picky, but when I get another house, my requirement is going to be a detached bathroom.

It might sound stupid and incredibly inconvenient, but I think that there are others out there who, like me, would think this idea is sent straight from Heaven.  These believers are probably going to be other moms.  There might be some dads in there too, but for very different reasons.

Not that my reasons are limited.  I have a fairly extensive list of reasons, starting with the kids.  There are two bathrooms in our postage stamp house.  No, actually there are two toilets and two sinks in our house; only one bathtub.  With five of us total, four of us gratefully lacking a Y-chromosome, and only 1.5 bathrooms, the math proves that there clearly is not enough bathroom to go around. 

The half-bath is tucked into the corner of our “master” bedroom.  I’m yet to figure out why they are dubbed the “master” bedroom and the “master” bathroom when they are both so petite.  No shred of masterful dignity is left in me after wiggling across the end of our bed just to get to the airplane-sized potty pantry.  Aside from that, it only takes our 8-year-old a mere two steps to cross from our bedroom door, through our bedroom, to our bathroom.  In two strides she does it though.  Every night, since she learned to pee pee on the potty, she has trekked through our room in the middle of the night to pee in our bathroom.  I used to be more understanding, when she was little, but now I’m just plain fed up with the whole arrangement.

Living in such close quarters means that my family spends a lot of time outdoors.  In turn, sweaty Southern summer days make me want to bathe regularly.  When I get this crazy inkling to actually use our one bathtub, I somehow send out a signal I’m not aware of that calls in every living creature in our house.  In the middle of my shower, Cameron usually starts a parade by jiggling the doorknob and throwing her 27-pounds against the door until it pops open.  She comes in, completely unapologetic, saying, “Need to bee, Momma,” as if that explains everything. 

I sometimes dare to ask, “Why don’t you go in the other bathroom, Cameron,” loud enough so her ignoring Daddy will hear from the other room.  Unless, of course, he’s hiding outside.

She usually replies sweetly with, “Don’t want to.”  Cameron’s open door is then an invitation to the cats.  They slither through the open door in force and fan out in different directions to ensure complete coverage of the entire room.  Miss Scarlett crouches at the edge of the shower curtain as the obligatory voyeur for the duration of my shower.  Claire jumps straight up to the windowsill to check the flanks.  Since our bathroom is so tiny, we have a free-standing sink and no counter space.  This means that the windowsill holds necessary items while I shower, like my glasses, hair tie, panties, etc.  Claire kicks them all to the floor in one swift motion to minimize distractions later on.  

The worst is yet to come.  While Cameron is happily peeing, either Slate or Roy (always one of the older, stinkier models) will climb into the cat box beside the toilet and start scratching around.  This is my signal to kick my scrubfest into overdrive, but I never seem fast enough.  I guess I’m too picky about shaving both legs completely rather than just part of one before I get out of the shower.  Inevitably, shortly after the scratching ceases, Cameron will begin gagging and informing me, “Mommy, stoop dis yitter box.  Syate just dropped a bomb.”  I holler to her to finish up and get out; save herself while there’s still time.

Under the watchful eye of Miss Scarlett, I continue to streak over my legs with the razor at warp speed while breathing through a soaped-up washcloth to avoid the stench.  The older girls traipse in claiming that Daddy told them to brush their teeth.  I shout to one of them to scoop the litter box, please for the love of God, and scoop if fast!  Wait…did they say “Daddy told them?”  That means he’s out there somewhere.  He’s hiding beyond the walls of our micro-bathroom, in fresh air and peace because the kids, cats and litter box bombs are all in here with me!  While I’m naked and vulnerable behind a thin shower curtain, bloodying my legs and getting high off of my soap-smeared gag rag! 

As my blood pressure rises, apparently so does the volume of my voice, even when I’m not aware that I’m speaking.  Tradd sometimes gets at least half of the point, takes pity on me and comes close enough for me to hear him tell the older girls to scoop quickly and take their toothbrushes to the other bathroom.  He rushes Cameron out, lets the litter box beast out, then shuts the door to leave me in peace, right?  Wrong. 

I notice him peeking around the shower curtain to stare at me in all my naked glory, only to find me crumpled in a heap in the bathtub, applying direct pressure to the various gashes on my blood-streaked legs.  Since the likeness to the scene from Stephen King’s Carrie doesn’t seem to stifle Tradd’s libido, I’m usually forced to say something.  Probably something not very nice, but then again I don’t have a man’s ability to overlook obvious setting obstacles, like the stench of the recently scooped litter box or the child already pounding on the door again.  Nope.  These things all leap to the front of my thoughts and stomp my libido into a murky little puddle that washes down the drain amidst the pint of blood from my freshly shorn legs. 

Aaahhh…Calgon.  Take me away!