By Kristina Hammer of The Daily Rantings of an Angrivated Mom
“I’m going to get in the shower.”
“What about mine?”
“Huh? You have three hours until you have to leave for work; you’ll have plenty of time. I haven’t had a shower since Monday because my period’s been so heavy. Or maybe it was even Sunday. I can’t really remember. Can you?”
“Whatever. Go. Just don’t waste all the hot water. Like you always do.”
Heaven forbid this mom gets clean. Ever!
When I’ve finally tracked down all the dreadfully necessary products to help me achieve the all-natural, zombified, wild look of over-caffeinated exhaustion life has cursed me with, I lock the bathroom door. For a moment, the buffered silence seems wrong. Panic sweeps through me as if I’m forgetting something — something catastrophic to the kids’ well-being and safety in the moment. It is quickly relieved with the echoes of shrill laughter creeping in from under the door.
I go to turn on the shower as I convince myself that a tornado will not cross paths with our house and discover that the faucet is bone dry, regardless of how far I turn the damn handle. The bolt holding the handle in place keeps coming loose due to water pressure issues caused by a leak in the pipes behind the walls.
I go get the Hubs to tighten all the handles and return the hot water to its spout for me. Then he’s got the nerve to tell me to hurry up and finish showering, as if I’ve already been in there getting clean for hours without an ounce of water! So I throw a rubber ducky at the back of his head. Then I hook the lock back in place.
Water running, shower essentials in place, clean clothes and dry towels waiting, I finally get into the shower. Twenty five minutes after I first attempted to do so.
Fully lost in the paradise of this time alone, without any kids, without anyone being able to use me for themselves, the sound of the door rattling startles me so badly, I bump my head against the tile, almost slipping and falling flat on my ass. I regain my composure just as the lock pops and the door flies open as the Hubs enters.
The toilet seat lifts. He starts telling me something about the soccer match he’s enthralled with, and I just mmm-hmmm along, silently wishing for him to get the hell out and let me bathe alone again before I stick the toilet plunger down his throat and out his rear end! He putzes through his business, turns the sink on and not only washes his hands, but also begins brushing his teeth.
My sanctuary is officially tainted.
[/nextpage] [nextpage title=”Page 2″ ]His tooth brushing is the worst thing ever for my inner calm, because he’s an avid tongue brusher who scrubs the entire surface area, all the way to the back of his throat, until his gag reflex activates, causing a mysophonic nerve response to go off like a nuclear bomb in my head.
Just as I am about to explode, the Hubs finally walks out, shutting the door behind him. I’ll forever ask myself now, “Why in God’s name didn’t I jump out and lock the door then?”
Someone’s already opening the bathroom door. Bean needs to go poop.
I go back to shaving my legs and apply way more lavender-scented baby oil than necessary in the hopes of masking my daughter’s ferociously putrid, noxiously odorific booty stank. No such luck. The stench only amplifies, to my dismay. It is a relief to have to move out of the way rather quickly when I hear that toilet flush, because being scalded momentarily is a way better fate than withstanding the smell of rotten eggs mixed with road kill coming from my princess’ daintily puckered asshole.
At this point in my shower, I don’t even remember what’s been washed and what’s left. I’ve cut my legs three different times while shaving due to the resident drama queen. I got into the shower to wash the blood off of me, not create open wounds to add to the mess my period was already making!
As I rinse off the face mask and wash my face with the expensive crap that’s supposed to treat this raging case of acne leftover from my teen years, I try to find some level of inner calm once more. I’m forced to shut my eyes during the whole process, unless the searing, burning, needle-to-the-eye pain of the acidic and oxidized chemical compounds used for acne and anti-aging treatments one day becomes a pleasurable experience.
There’s something about standing completely under steamy hot, running water with my eyes closed which lets me shut off the tangible physical world and turn on a level of subconsciousness, slightly deeper than a daydream, where I meld with the universe, free of all my earthly troubles. It is one of my most favorite feelings to feel.
Of course, the Curse Of My Life brings this ever-so-brief moment of Zen to an abruptly chilled end.
While I am floating freely through my mind in total bliss, the hot water tank decides to run out of its coveted contents, letting the cold water dominate the pipes once more. My head gets blasted, shattering the dreamy rumination I was trying to lose myself within. Whether I am done or not, whether I like it or not, my shower is over with.
All attempts at enjoying a moment of solitude have failed, and any further opportunity to try again go down the drain. My mood is soured worse than it was when I was on my fourth day of baby wipe baths. I suppose this was not the right moment, after all. With that thought, there is a knock at the door once more, and there stands my oldest son, looking absolutely dumbfounded at the sight of me wrapped in a towel, glaring at him.
“Oh. The water turned off, so I thought you were done in here.”
Of course he did.
A longer version of this post was originally published on The Daily Rantings of an Angrivated Mom.
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About the Author
Kristina L. Hammer is a blogging sahm to 4 crazy kiddos that have stolen her sanity. She’s addicted to Coca-Cola to stay energized on her journey to insanity and beyond! She has also recently added a brand new puppy and kitten to her growing zoo of family pets. Find her on Facebook and Twitter.