It’s 12:30 in the afternoon and I’m finally getting a chance to shower. The big kids are at school and I’ve set the littles up with lunch. I have ten minutes to enjoy this act alone and I’d better be extra quiet or I’ll have company.
Two minutes in and the 3YO busts through the door ripping his clothes off, “I want to get in!” Scrubbing down like a scene from Silkwood I protest, “No man! I want do to this alone today. I’ll let you shower tonight.”
I gotta give the kid credit for his interest in hygiene at such a young age, but sometimes I dream of showering without people tugging at my stretched out nipples or slapping my butt. He’s whimpering now while doing a little jig on the rug outside the shower door. Maniacally, he rushes to the potty, relieves himself and quickly flushes the toilet. Scalding water pummels me and I squeal in surprise though it feels as if three days of stress melted off my shoulders and traveled down the drain. “Ha ha! That’s what you get,” he says as he washes his hands.
Really? All I wanted was 10 minutes to clean myself uninterrupted and now I’m being chastised by my tiny tot who’s throwing tags and little pieces of paper from my husband’s clothes in to the shower with me. I rinse my hair, speedily scrape a razor across my legs ensuring a definitive burn, and shut off the water.
This is my life. It’s not an every day occurrence. Sometimes I’m not even clean when I leave the house. For some reason, my girlfriends are under the impression I have it all together.