Dear Family

A WORD OF CAUTION:
I'm about to embark on a full-out rant.  If  you subscribe to the theory that a mother and wife would never, publicly or privately, ass-chew her family or curse a blue streak, you'll want to skip this post.

Let me start by saying, in print, so that it may be recorded for posterity, that I wholeheartedly love my Dear Hubby and Sweet Offspring.  I would not be the person I am without them in my life.  'What I am' on any given day depends on my mood, the phase of the moon and what I like to term compliance with generally accepted standards of personal space.  I am either:

1) Endlessly and forever enamored of all things 'family'; their various bodily expulsions (You mean your children can't fart on command?  Oh, bless your heart!), and their ability to make me melt with a head tilt/eyelash flutter/sincerely delivered 'I love you, Mama' (I love you too, dear.  Now, tell me what you really want).

OR

2) I'm the lone passenger on Batshit-Crazy Airlines to Looneyland with a brief layover at Tranquilizertown.

I'll leave you to guess what today was for me.  No, smart-ass, I'm not talking Independence Day.

Dear Hubby and I have been married fourteen years; our eldest will turn twelve next month.  So, in fourteen friggin' years, I have not bathed, showered, peed or pooped without a big person, little person(s) or four-legged child crashing my party of one.  We live IN A TWO BATHROOM HOUSE ya'll!  Three out of five occupants pee outside because that's what pets do or, for the two-leggeds, just for shits and giggles.  What is it about my bathroom occupation that's such a crowd pleaser?  When the offspring were little, I was one of those lucky mommies who had her own Pep Squad... Yay, Mommy pee-peed in da potty!  Have I missed something?  Is this really the 50 yard line at Cowboys Stadium, Talladega or game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals?  And all along I thought it was my bathroom...silly Mommy!

Perhaps it's because, while seated or dripping wet, I am for all intents and purposes, a captive audience.  And don't get me started on the one time I had the balls to (gasp!) lock the bedroom door.  'What if you'd fallen', Hubby intoned in his best Darth Vader imitation.  Well, I could've hit my head or busted out some pearly whites, but guess what, they give you PAIN MEDS in the Emergency Department that make you very sleepy...it would've eventually been QUIET which is what I was going for in the first place!

I do not need, nor desire, anyone else's presence while I'm tending to my business.  Wife in the shower should never be equated with booty call.  I am not looking for sex covered in soap suds, shampoo dripping into my eyes, razor in hand.  I am dirty (not Christina Aguilera 'dirrrty'), tired and am looking for the only in-house source of peace and quiet.  I do not care that your sibling has accused you of ingesting nose goblins (don't lie--I've seen it in living color) or that you've been called a slang term for male genitalia (frankly, there are times when you ARE one.  Just sayin').  I do not care that the boo-boo you got two years ago doing something I told you specifically not to do and which has left a rather nice scar, inexplicably hurts and hell, no I won't kiss it and unless you're experiencing voluminous blood loss or the house is aflame, all I want is for you to GET OUT, GET OUT NOW!

I wasn't aware that every time I set foot inside the bathroom, I'm setting myself up for some kind of time trial: zero to flush in 60 seconds. 'Sorry, you've failed to qualify because that last pass was 0.02 seconds longer than last time'.  Also, please trust me when I say that my posterior largesse prevents me from falling in.  WTH!?!

Unless you want graphic details of my toileting or bathing exploits (and now's a good time to remember that I work in a hospital laboratory and our idea of 'cool' and 'good time' involves bodily secretions, excretions, parts and the occasional parasite and that I know any number of descriptive medical terms which will forever turn you off to eating peas, carrots and blue icing or from ever having carnal knowledge of anyone, ever) I'd suggest you just let the matter drop and let me enjoy a modicum of tranquility.

All my love,
Mom