A mother of young children cannot simply hop in the shower like a normal person.
No.
Every morning, after I get the children fed and dressed, I attempt to take a quick shower to wake me up, and for cleanliness purposes and all. You’d think this would be a simple thing, but alas, you would be wrong. Taking a shower requires a grand entrance into the living room–to get their attention–and a loud and forceful proclamation:
“I’M TAKING MY SHOWER NOW.”
What this really means is “Do not bother me for the next 15 minutes unless there is blood or fire or you’ll be grounded until you’re 35.”
Immediately, the children think of 25 things they need me to do for them first–they’re still hungry, they want more cereal, they can’t find the remote, they need drinks, Pumpkin is laying in their favorite spot and WON’T MOVE, blah, blah, blah. After I fill their requests, I attempt to sneak out of the room before they can think of anything else to ask me. When I hit the hallway, I start running. Yes, running. You see, time is of the essence. I have only about 5 minutes until they realize I’m gone. When I get to the bathroom, I shut the door, start the shower, fling off my clothes, and jump in without testing the water, which means that I will either be scalded or frost bitten.
When I was younger, before children, I had a wide variety of products in the shower–lovely scented shower gels, deep conditioning treatments, facial scrubs. Now, I have a bar of soap and some shampoo. I have no time to mess with all of that other stuff. I must simply scrub off the outer layer of grime and get the heck out!
I close my eyes and begin to shampoo my hair. When I open them again, a little face is peering at me through the ripply glass door. “Mommy! Take sowah!” shouts the face. I ignore it with single-minded determination. I AM going to take a shower today! I hear puttering and rummaging outside the door, and then…silence. Ahhh, she left! But wait, I hear the toilet lid open and shut. Again. Again, and again, and again. Cold fear clenches my heart. I nervously open the shower door, dripping wet, shampoo inching down the side of my face, perilously close to my eye, and inspect the bathroom. All seems normal, so I rinse off and step out, congratulating myself on making it all the way through with no catastrophes! A triumph indeed. Until I reach for a towel.
Apparently, Pumpkin enjoys sleeping in the linen cabinet, because the only towel left is covered with a fine layer of orange cat hair. Only I don’t realize this until I wipe my wet face with it and end up looking like I’ve turned into a werewolf overnight. Now I have to get back in the shower to rinse off the cat hair. Then I have to tiptoe, dripping wet, down the hall to the other bathroom, because I forgot to get more towels before I got back in the shower.
When Babycakes, who is very nearly weaned, sees me wearing nothing but a towel, she gets more excited than a teenage boy on a first date. She starts running down the hall after me, yelling enthusiastically, “Bubbies! Bubbies!” I frantically throw on some clothes, in the hope of distracting her, but sadly, it’s too late. She has already seen the bubbies. The damage is done.
When we finish nursing, I return to the bathroom to dry my soaking wet hair, and of course, Babycakes comes in to visit. “Potty, yucky!” she tells me emphatically, pointing to the still closed toilet lid. “Doan touch it!” Oh dear. What is she trying to tell me? I tentatively lift the lid, and there, nestled at the bottom of the toilet, is an entire collection of magnetic letters.
For me they spell FRUSTRATION, and GROSS!…and it’s only 8:30 in the morning.
