“Mom, she’s gotta go bad!”
Each and every day, several times a day if it’s a weekend, my front door opens with a bang. The door’s hinges rattle and my wall reels with the impact. I run to corral FringePup from either escaping into the wild world of bicycles, footballs sailing through the air, and army men being shot from the porch with foam darts OR from knocking the fifty-two pound second grader to the floor and giving her a saliva bath. Neither option is acceptable.
My bathroom has cast a spell on one child and she’s drawn, beyond her own reasoning, to tinkle, flush, and rinse. My daughter adds drama to the daily ritual by overemphasizing the fact that her bladder is near bursting and she’s dabbling with the idea of incontinence. I fear Broadway is missing out on a great child prodigy, but I no more want my floor watered by a neighbor’s child than I want my dog to eat elementary school children.
And so I drop whatever it is I’m doing, tackle the dog in a hold that looks to the unsuspecting as if it’s a hug, and I wait to hear a flush.
It’s no wonder this little girl is attracted to my bathroom. I mean, who doesn’t love a room with three levels and varieties of flooring. A hole that drops clear into the basement, and a mirror that varies your size and width by location. It’s a full fun house in a 4 x 8 space. The mirror alone draws me. If I stand slightly to the left of the third and highest layer of flooring and tilt my head just so, my entire upper body contorts into an elongated giraffe like image. Although I don’t think my neck needs to be quite so long, it does wonders for slimming my jaw line and every once in a while a woman wants to know what she’d look like if she finally grew an extra three inches. Unfortunately the height is limited to my neck, but that’s trivial. I enjoy the moment.
I’m not sure this same girl has noticed the lone toilet sitting snugly, and I do mean tightly fitted, in the second floor hall closet. I’ve tried to camouflage it from unsuspecting guests. Apparently the previous owners didn’t feel the same need for privacy since they removed the closet door. I don’t fully blame this oversight on poor taste or outright flagrancy, because even without my extra neck length, I could not possible sit on that toilet with a door closed. Unless you’re two-foot three, I think your knees would chafe.
I promise you that closet toilet’s days are numbered. And for the record, it’s not been used since we purchased the house. There is no water currently running to it and I refuse to touch it until FringeMan is ready to gut this space. I pretend this closet doesn’t exist.
Did I ever tell you about the house we lived in that had a ‘toiler’?
I’ll just give you the definition of a ‘toiler’ for today. That will be enough food for your imagination to digest this weekend.
1. a bathroom fixture consisting of a bowl, usually with a detachable, hinged seat and lid (preferably heated), and a device for flushing with water, used for (well, you know) and located directly in the front entrance of a home.
2. an unlikely combination of the words toi-let and foy-er.