I knew I should have read the fine print when I signed up for motherhood. I glossed over the "Lack of Privacy" section of the contract because I read it immediately following a gynecological exam where the only nod at modesty was in the form of a 2x2 piece of tissue paper that I think was supposed to cover my left elbow. Thus, worrying about privacy seemed pretty meaningless after I'd just been hanging out with my feet in the stirrups.
But seriously, Michael is 4 now, which means I WOULD JUST LIKE 5 MEASLY MINUTES TO USE THE BATHROOM BY MYSELF! Whew, sorry, was that me yelling?
We've had a dozen conversations in the past week about privacy and modesty, highlighting basics such as the fact that it isn't polite to barge in on someone who is in any degree of undress. For some reason he has taken this as some sort of quest to bring down the bathroom door. Man the battle stations! Mom is using the potty!
"Michael, I need my privacy while I use the toilet. Please stop banging on the door!"
"But mom, I need to be in there!"
"No you don't! Go away and I'll be out in a few minutes!"
"But I need to be with you!"
"Go find something else to do for a few minutes."
He tests the lock.
"I'll just stand right here and wait for you!" he says.
Ten little toes appear beneath the door.
"Are you done yet, Mom?"
"No, go away!"
"Because you need your privacy?"
"Yes, because I need my privacy."
"I don't know what privacy means, Mom."
You and Julian Assange.
"Are you pooping or peeing, Mom?"
Should I confess I'm holed up in the bathroom reading snatches of Harry Potter 7? Hmm, nope.
Now where is that candy bar I stashed under the sink?