By Nina Shyne Alviar
Now, I just want to say, I love my kids. I am all about togetherness, and I feel that I am as selfless as the next mother with my personal space when they need me. But God Almighty, all I want is a few minutes a day by myself, just to sit, relax and, well, get down to business. I want to be alone in the bathroom.
When nature calls and I’m alone with my boys, ages one and three, I leave the door open so that I can observe them and keep them safe. They make this remarkably easy for me because they follow me into the bathroom. The three year old insists that I “Watch Mama!” while he hops on one foot and the one year old attempts to use my underwear like a hammock. Or they start fighting about something or other and come screaming into the bathroom for my immediate mediation services. Or one or both of them suffer an Owie that sends them sobbing into my lap. Why these things happen at this exact moment, we shall have to ask the Oracle.
But here’s the thing: I’m busy. To the newly toilet trained and the one still in diapers, I appear to just be sitting there — why wouldn’t I be able to give them my all? They don’t realize that I am, decidedly, incapacitated. So from my compromised position I attempt to praise, comfort, mediate, and remove toddlers from my pants. What I need is privacy.
I have tried having the privacy discussion with my children and I can see the words blow like leaves in the wind behind their vacant stares. So I give it up, and look toward the days when my husband is home from work. It is then that I employ the sacred device of guaranteed privacy — the lock on the door.
It goes like this: I recognize the call, and make eye contact with my partner. He nods like a cat burglar to his accomplice, and I slowly saunter in the direction of the bathroom trying not to attract any attention. Then he begins the distraction – “Oh my! Look here children! I see a bug in the kitchen!” he sings like the pied piper and they disappear. I close the door soundlessly and turn the lock.
Moments later, the jig is up — it was just a piece of lint. Frantic fists pound the door and desperate cries of “Mama! MAMA!” seep in through the cracks. My husband is doing his best, shouting “Hey guys! Look! Look!” while balancing on a ball, juggling fish, and eating fire or something. I switch on the fan to drown it all out from my Fortress of Solitude. “Just a miiiinuuuute!” I croon. Then I reach behind me, pulling a magazine from the back of the throne, for a little extra Princess time.
Nina Shyne Alviar lives in Missoula with her husband, Alex, and her two boys, Marquez (3) and Lucero (1.) She shares land and chickens with her neighbors on the Westside. Nina is a nanny, postpartum doula, lactation counselor and was once a preschool teacher who went on maternity leave and never came back. She runs for sanity, and can be seen in one of those sporty hats huffing around town. Oh, and she likes to write once in a while, you know, when she has the time.
Love what you read? Share it!
Email This Post
Connect with us!
Oh Nina, Thanks once again for making me laugh. I absolutely love your style of writing. Your children are adorable by the way and I am glad they give you so much inspiration. Is it bad if I have a deadbolt on my bathroom door
ha ha.
Aimee