Five Minutes

It has been a very long week around here.

Everyone is tired. We are all just a little bit cranky. My feet hurt.

I have very little brain power available and I still have fifteen things to finish before I can even pretend to think about going to sleep.

Is it Friday yet?

Due to my lack of available brain power, the best I can muster for today is a (hopefully) amusing anecdote about using the bathroom. Yes, the bathroom. The potty. The toilet. The loo. Whatever.

No, Im not going to go fifteen year old boy humor on you, but I will speak fairly frankly about the sanctity of ones need for such activities.


Its Thursday evening, at the end of a very long, very tiring, very emotional, very draining day. My patience was wearing thin. Dinner was takeoutyes, we caved. (Hey, at least it involved healthy food.) Kidzilla had hit that time of the evening where she was too tired to remember her name but too stubborn to be tired. But then came sweet music:

Mom. Im tired. I want to go up to bed.

And with that the Angel choirs broke into a full-on chorus of the Hallelujah chorus.

It is 9:01 PM. (Yes, yes, its past her bedtimeIve been 45 minutes behind all day. This is why I am cranky and Zilla is whiny.)

I head for the powder room for a quick pit stop on the way to take Kidzilla up to bed.

And then I hear, Mom. I want to come in.

Me: No. Im using the potty.

Z: But I want to come in.

Me: Zilla. No. I am using the potty. Alone.

Z: You cant use it alone.

Me: I can. Im actually pretty good at it. Ive been doing this alone for like 40 years. Im good.

Z: But Moooooohhhhhmmmmm. I want to come iiiiiiiinnnnnnnn.

I lock the door. All I need is five little minutes.

Jiggle jiggle jiggle.

Z: Mom! Let me in!

Me: Zilla. Go brush your teeth. I will be right there.

Jiggle jiggle jiggle. I can hear her hanging on the doorknob. She begins to sob.

My Child correctly uses words like ornery and conceal in regular conversation and can do a tangram square in five minutes flat. But she is hanging on the powder room doorknob like a monkey because I wont let her in the bathroom with me. Honestly.

I am not a horrible or unreasonable mother. I understand now that mothers do not get to eat, sleep, get dressed, shower, or pee without some short person within eyeball range. But just todayjust this one timeI wanted to go alone.

Jiggle jiggle jiggle.

Z: Mom! I have to pee.

(I think to myself, Are you kidding me?)

I say out loud, Are you kidding me?

Z: No. I really have to pee.

(She has the bladder of a camel. She hasnt peed in like six hours and she has to go now?)

Me: Go upstairs.

Z: I cant. I have to go down here.

Me: If you have to go, then go upstairs.

Z: No, I have to go down here. Let me in.

Me: Zilla, I am using this bathroom. I am using it alone. Go. Upstairs. Now.

Z: Ill pee in my pants.

Me: You wont pee in your pants if you GO UPSTAIRS RIGHT NOW!

Yup. I lost it.

Fab Hub comes quickly to the rescue. I hear him swoop up Kidzilla and whisk her up the stairs to the bathroom. She proceeds to cry about using that bathroom and sobs dramatically about how she could not possibly pee in that pottyall the while she pees in that potty. Honestly.

In the meantime, from outside the bathroom door, I hear the scritch scritch scratching of little black paws underneath the powder room door. I hear a tiny little meowover and over and OVER until the small Rotten Cat outside the door begins to WAIL at the top of his furry little lungs to be let into the powder room.

(I think to myself, Are you kidding me?)

I say out loud, Are you kidding me?

RC: Meeooooowww. Yeeooooowwwlll. (Translation: Rotten Cat speak for let me in.)

I holler to no one in particular, Are you KIDDING ME??? ALL I NEED IS FIVE MINUTES ALONE!!! HOW HARD IS THAT???

Cat stops. Kidzilla stops.

Slam. Flush. Wash.

I open the door and find not one, not two, but Three Rotten Cats, sitting very politely and staring at the powder room door.

It is 9:06 PM.

Five minutes.

This post was previously published on The Meaning of Me and is republished here with permission from the author.

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