Today’s referendum on my love took place in the bathroom.
I have to go.
Fine, let’s go.
Will you come in with me?
It’s really tiny in there. I don’t fit. Look, you can see my boots. My boots are in with you.
But I want you to hold my coat.
Ok.
I like your hat, Mommy! Does your hat fit you?
Yes, yes it does.
I got hat too.
Pause, happy leg swinging.
I’m all done!
Great.
Can you wipe me?
No, you can do it. You’re a big girl.
H
But you wipe Wyatt!
Only sometimes. And… (here we engage in a complicated discussion regarding the differences between Wyatt’s toileting needs and hers, some of which involves age and some of which is really just more detail than you need. Than anyone needs. I can’t believe I got into it.)
You’re bigger than Wyatt. I don’t like wiping Wyatt. I’m proud that you can do it yourself!
I want you do it.
No.
Stalemate, and another ten minutes of my life squandered in a public toilet. Which brings me to the title of this post. Why, why does it always have to be toilets?
I don’t know which of my children first realized that the one sure fire way to get my full attention in a public place was to demand to go to the potty, I’m pretty sure it was Sam. We would go in and have these long chats. How do you think they change the toilet paper? What’s this wastebasket for? Can I look in it? Why not?
Eventually I refused to go in with him. Lily did the same, and Wy too. I suppose I should not be surprised that kid arrival #4 would take this to such extreme levels that I frequently just refuse to take her to the bathroom while we’re out. But why, why does it have to be TOILETS?
KJ Dell’Antonia
sent from my iPhone