Restroom. Oval Office. The Lou. Toilet. The Crapper.
The John. The Throne. The Bucket. Ceramic Pot. The Palace. Potty.
What you call it is up to you. It doesn’t matter. It always represents the same thing. PRIVACY!
Not in my house.
Why is my restroom the information booth, the communication center, the justice department, or even the oracle’s cave whenever I decide to seek some privacy? Like most of you, I sometimes like to retreat to the only part of my home that should offer silence, seclusion, something to read, and something to sit on. Unfortunately, this place is my cell in hell.
Here, instead of silence, I am attacked by fist-bombs banging on the door, dog paws scratching underneath it, voices shrieking and demanding answers to “Where’s my…[insert item of your choice]?”, barking, a not very nice verbal exchange between a seven and a twelve year old, more barking, then more yelling demanding to know whose side I’m on and that I punish the provocateur justly (who, of course, my son claims is my daughter and my daughter claims is my son) and more barking. And as if this wasn’t enough to deal with, I also have to foretell the future and predict the outcome of fantastic, worst case scenarios only my children’s imagination can conjure up, such as “What if someone broke in and stole us while you’re in there, Mom?”
I’d like to reply, “They would return you in a heartbeat!”, but instead, I have to act as if I’m not in the middle of a very important business of taking my body’s trash out and loudly calculate the odds of that nothappening in order to ease the mind of the hooligans in front of my restroom door.
But, as soon as the sound of the cascading water from the flushing of the restroom, the Oval Office, the Lou, the toilet, the Crapper, the John, the Throne, the Bucket, the Ceramic Pot, the Palace, or the Potty can be heard and the door to the would-be-sanctuary opens, the noisemakers in front of it scatter. Don’t get me wrong, I love my children and my dog, but I will deal with their crap!