Privacy Rights

I knew when I became a mom that I was going to have to give up a reasonable amount of things. Sleep was something I was resigned to never catch up on, all of my items placed below a two foot surface were fair game, and I was no longer going to be allowed to have my own bowl of ice cream. These things never bothered me, and I was all too willing to make these sacrifices to the goddess of motherhood, but I never expected the bathroom audience.

In the beginning, when Rachael was a newborn, I would put her in her bouncy chair and take her into my small bathroom while I showered. This was a good way for me to keep an eye on her while doing my daily hygiene routine. When she was a little older, I would put her in her swing around 10:00 am and turn on a Baby Einstein video, which would inevitably ease her into her nap. It would also give me exactly 32 minutes to shower, brush my teeth, pee, and put on a small amount of makeup. Those were the easy days.

Now during the daytime I find myself with a “standing room only” audience while I’m trying to do my toilet business. Rachael begins by following me into the bathroom. If I shut the door all the way, my toddler screams and pounds the door with her fists until I am able to hoist myself in a half squat and turn the knob. She is followed by the dog who pants while watching my every move, like I’m some kind of reality tv show about pissing. As I fend my toddler away from unrolling the toilet paper or playing swordfight with the toilet brush, I feel like my privacy is being seriously violated.

I didn’t mind having to listen to Dora the Explorer in my ear constantly or having to figure out the perfect microwave setting for fish sticks or even carrying around a slight resentment towards my husband’s less burdened lifestyle, but having four eyes observe my bathroom habits is a little much. Aside from the toilet audience, Rachael is now a regular fixture when I’m in the shower. I didn’t mind it when she was younger, it was necessary, but now I’m wondering at what age I should kick her out of the bathroom. This comes more into question in the morning when Jeff is showering and Rachael is waving to him through the glass shower doors. At what age can those icky mental scars begin to develop?

We aren’t prudes when it comes to nudity, although we aren’t exhibitionists either. Neither of us is good looking enough to walk around in the buff constantly. I would never lead Rachael to believe in any way that the human body is shameful or sex is bad, but I still shutter as I remember seeing my own mother naked. Thankfully, I never saw my father or stepdad in the raw, because I can’t think of anything more disturbing. I did accidentally walk in on my parents once while they were having sex, and even though I only saw shadows, because the room was dark, it was still unsettling. I think that is one experience that translates no matter who your parents are. Years from now when Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson’s kids are in college the thought of that video, despite Mom’s expertly hand-crafted tits, and Dad’s way above average schlong, will inevitably make those two boys feel ooky.

I want Rachael to avoid this whole experience, and I would like to start now with her leaving the bathroom while I’m trying to do my toilet business. This won’t be easy, because my daughter is an attention whore with a stubborn streak. I’ll run downstairs for 30 seconds to grab her a bottle, and she’ll be whining and racing right after me, because she doesn’t feel like having me out of her site. At night she sometimes, all but vocally, insists on sleeping in our king sized bed with us, and manages to kick the hell out of us until she has domain over nearly the entire sleeping space. Rachael wants what she wants, despite the needs or urges of others. Getting her to dismiss herself from my pissing presence won’t be an easy task, but I know it’s for her own good.

I’d hate to think that in just a mere 20 years from now she will be sitting in the therapist’s office discussing the ills inflicted on her by Jeff and I, and site my bathroom habits as the major reason for all of her emotional problems. I can just hear her now, “I still can’t go to the bathroom without breaking down into an anxiety attack, because I was in the bathroom constantly with my mother while she was on the toilet and she didn’t care.”

I do care, baby! I really do care, and I don’t want you in here with me anymore. Unload all of the folded shirts out of my dresser drawer, drop half of your dinner from your highchair onto the dog, kick me until I’m bruised while I’m trying to sleep, but for Pete’s sake, get the hell out of the john while I’m trying to get my business done!