When we first bought our house, I remember thinking it was so big. We had closets that were barren. We had entire bedrooms that were uninhibited. I didn’t know what to do with all of that unoccupied territory.
Now I look around that exact same space and feel claustrophobic. Sometimes I can’t even breathe. There’s no room. There’s crap everywhere (sometimes literally). There are people everywhere. Many of whom I don’t even know.
I lie in bed at night dreaming of a bigger house. Having space for everything. And everyone.
I dream of built-ins and built-outs. I dream of storage. I dream of organization. I dream of countertops I can see. I dream of outlets. Hidden outlets. Everything plugged in and fully charged and out of sight.
Sometimes when the panic sets in that I may never acquire all of these things, I begin to make compromises. I start making deals with the devil. Just my own bathroom. That’s all I really need.
If I could only have my own lavatory, life would be perfect. I’d have no complaints. My grass would permanently be greener.
If I can’t find one of my kids, all I do is go into the bathroom and close the door. Within thirty seconds, all four of them are there knocking. It’s amazing.
Once my cheeks hit that seat they all come a runnin’. Ironically, my husband’s bowels don’t possess these magical powers. Bless his heart.
We have a perfectly lovely bathroom in the basement. But the kids claim they are too petrified to go down there. The entire basement is completely remodeled. It’s literally nicer than our upstairs. It was actually the selling point of the house. Yet they’re all too frightened to dare tinkle down there. Eye roll.
The basement in the house I grew up in was a real basement. It was the type of place horror movies were filmed in. It was not finished. You were able to ride your bikes and roller skate down there. It flooded all the time and just dried itself up again. And there was no plumbing involved.
The stairs leading down there were the kind that had no backing on them and you could easily slip right through them to your death. And no one would ever find you because it was so dark down there. With one single bulb hanging from the ceiling. It would be days, maybe even weeks, before your corpse would be discovered. Just like Ray Brower’s body in Stand By Me.
If you have a child who has a problem having bowel movements, you can just send them to my house. Because the moment I turn that shower head on, every single one of my kids, and a few neighbor kids, and sometimes even my husband, has to go number two. It’s better than anything any doctor can prescribe.
I also dream of a toothpaste free basin. Of course I love the fact that my kids brush their teeth. But I’m not exactly sure of how much of an impact it’s making with all of the toothpaste left over in the sink. It’s disgusting. And needs to be scrubbed on a daily basis.
Then there is the actual toilet. And the surrounding floor. And the surrounding wall tiles. And the smell.
Urine seems to make its way everywhere except in the actual toilet bowl. The smell is really something. I keep a spray bottle of pine sol and a roll of paper towels next to the commode, but the daily ritual of wiping up all of the wizz wreaks havoc on my perfectly coiffed nails.
My make-up is another issue. Sometimes I go to put on my powder and it’s wet. And that makes me sad. It feels really gross. Like when you were a kid and your mom would lick her big thumb and wipe your face with it.
I am a grown ass woman. I should never have to feel that warm moistness upon my skin ever again. It’s just not right. I shouldn’t be expected to live this way. It’s just not natural.
Someday I’ll have a bathroom like the ones pinned to my board on Pinterest. The board aptly entitled Heaven. Because the next time I pee alone will probably be in my coffin. And I’m strangely looking forward to that.