Sunday, January 17, 2010
Too Close For Comfort
For almost two years now Anna has been old enough to use the toilet by herself. I can tell you're already thinking, this post is going to be great! She runs upstairs and only very rarely asks for assistance.
Of course, flying solo does not always go according to plan and she will often forget to wipe (don't ask how I know that) or will forget to wash her hands, or worse, I will come upstairs after twenty minutes to find that hand-washing has now morphed into 'sink soup' involving soap, horrifyingly healthy squirts of Molton Brown lotion and toothpaste.
She can't use the facilities by herself when out and about though, so in that case we always have to go together. She has a fear of 'rheumatic toilets', read, automatic toilets, the ones that flush when they no longer sense your presence. A little troublesome if you're a waif of a 4 year old as they often decide you're no longer there when you're in the middle of your very delicate procedure and WHOOSH! the terrifyingly loud cyclonic action flushes right beneath your tiny derriere. She will hold back the Nile if it means avoiding a rheumatic toilet.
For the last two years going together to public bathrooms has been an adventure. I will long remember her heartfelt cry of 'You did it Mom! You did a poop!' in the Nordstrom stalls, 'this one's going to be a Dada poop' at full volume in a posh restaurant loo, or my least favourite 'your butt is really hairy Mom' (at 8 months pregnant bikini waxes were not high on my agenda). Her latest gem, uttered last weekend in our local cafe toilets, really cracked me up. We were washing our hands, wondering, with barely concealed excitement whether the hand soap was going to be white (usually), blue (boring) or pink (squeal!) when she turns to me and says...
"Err, Mom, I think that you're forgetting that you left some toilet paper in my butt'.
You're on your own there sister.