Line for the Bathroom

There was a time in My Life, B.C. (before Caroline) when I’d stand in line for the bathroom and it didn’t bother me much. Maybe at a concert or a baseball game, I’d usually make a new friend along the way. We were all there for the same reason, and we laughed that the line never moved quickly enough. 

Fast forward a few years and two kids later, I find a significant part of my morning routine standing in line for the bathroom, again. Except for this time, there is no Eric Church jamming as background music, only the Frozen soundtrack. Sigh. 

When we bought this farm, we were interested in the pasture, fence, and outbuildings. The house was a second thought for newlyweds who didn’t have a family on the brain, yet. 

Boy, was that naive. 

Potty training in a single bathroom home could have been a book in itself. Inevitably, every time she decided it was finally “time” there was someone else in the bathroom and an accident would happen. There were lots of tears of frustration and embarrassment. The whole training process took longer than it should have and I believe some of that had to do with waiting in line. 

Now that Caroline is potty trained and seemingly running on her own schedule, the bathroom has taken on a whole new role in the home. 

“Why is the bathroom door locked?” Cody asked last week. 

“I think Caroline is in there,” I responded. 

“The 3-year-old doesn’t need to use a lock. That’s way too dangerous and she’s way too smart,” he remarked. 

Two minutes later:

“She’s still in there,” Cody said, sounding annoyed.

“Well knock and ask her to get out.”

“Caroline! Times up. Wash your hands and come out. I need in there.”

“Can’t daddy. I’m only halfway through my Earth book. It’s a pretty big book.”

Cody looked at me, “I really hope she didn’t take a library book into the bathroom.”

“No, that’s one of ours. She did take an Angus Journal in yesterday,” I told him, trying not to laugh. “I’m not sure which issue it was, but I think she put it back on your side table.”

That really fired him up. Angus Journals are prized possessions (to him), as a source of great beef knowledge, Angus history and cattle pictures. 

“Caroline! Out! I need in there. The bathroom is no place for storytime.”

“Dad! Don’t rush me! This stuff takes time.”

He mumbled something about “Lord help us when she’s 15” and went outside. I never saw him again. 

Cody came in the house yesterday and Caroline and Cyrus were both sitting outside the bathroom door. 

“What are you guys doing?” he asked. 

“I have to go and Mom’s taking forever,” she said. 

“Have you knocked?” he asked. 

“Yep, she told me to go play.”

“She only wants in here because there is a Barbie in the shower!” I yelled from inside.

“Caroline, why did you put toys in the bathroom?”

“Cyrus and I were going to give Barbie a bath and wash his tractor,” she explained.

“Bbbbbmmmbbbb” Cyrus started making a tractor sound and pointed to the door. 

This explained his stake in the bathroom game. 

“Ok, you both need to get off the floor and leave Mom alone. She’ll be out as soon as she can.”

“No, I won’t. I brought my cookbook in here and I’m making my meal plan for the week ahead. Don’t worry. I’m sitting on the sink. It’s the only room in the house with a lock,” I yelled through the white door covered in handprints on the bottom 1/3.

The room is only 8 ft. x 6 ft. (yes, I measured it to ensure accuracy for this column), but for whatever reason, one person cannot go inside without the rest of the family following them. 

I went in to floss Saturday night and both kids fought for a spot on the toilet lid to watch me “string my teeth.” Cody shaved Sunday morning with an audience. “If you’re going to be in the way, you might as well be useful. Hand me a towel,” he told them. 

I hope one day we can add on to this old farmhouse and another bathroom will be on those plans. I dream of a day where I can go into the bathroom and not give an oral dissertation as to why. Because frankly, between you and I, I actually locked myself in the bathroom last week to eat a Reese’s egg from the Easter Bunny. I shouldn’t have to explain that to anyone. 

In my defense, it’s the only room in the house with a lock!