My mom came to visit recently. After about 4 hours in our house, she just gave up trying to pee with the door closed. It wasn’t worth it anymore. Welcome to our house, where dreams of privacy go to die. We live in a modified space that was never intended to be a house, so we don’t have any real locks to speak of and we have the added privacy-killing bonus of sliding doors. Our dear Boychild can (and often does) casually wander in when me, dad, grandma, or whomever are on the toilet so he can chat with us and perhaps make a sneaky grab for the toilet brush. Other “parent on the potty” activities are chasing the cat, throwing dirty clothes in the tub and splashing in the sink water. We have no privacy in our house. We just don’t.

Plus side? We’ve adjusted our expectations and have released all shame associated with bodily functions. I used to be afraid to poop at work. Not no more! Don’t care. No shame. It’s actually an oasis of privacy, the office bathroom. It’s close to heaven. No little hands slapping you on the knees, interrupting your concentration; no adorable manikin running off with a ream of toilet paper while you take a deuce. Pooping at work is heaven. Just the uninterrupted silence alone is divine.

All this lack of privacy is good? For? My? Son? Recently, he told me “I have penis, dad have penis, you don’t have penis.” And I said, “Okay, Dr. Freud, it doesn’t make me less-than. All babies start as female then develop from there. Penises are actually a later adaptation.” Nah. I didn’t say that. I’m not ready for the conversation about gender, sex and what our fleshy bits mean or don’t mean. He also doesn’t get sarcasm, so if I called him Dr. Freud he’d just say “I Not Doctor Froid,” and ruin the joke. Instead, I just said, “Oh, mmhmm.” I was a little surprised that he noticed my lack of penis. I don’t know why: I clearly don’t have one. It’s not as though I always thought I had a penis and he shattered my illusions. I guess I wasn’t ready for him to notice. He’s two and a half. I thought I’d have more time before. Before? Before what? Before he thought of me as different? Before he began developing a blueprint based on me that he will apply to every single woman he meets for the rest of his life?  Yeah. But what I’ve learned about parenting is that ready or not, that sh!t is coming, so I’d better gird my lady-loins and roll with it.

Just a Pee Ess: my mom calls a toilet “the commode”. I love the Southern Gothic-ness of it, and I get a kick out of it every time she says it. 🙂