Our bathroom is the place where dreams go to die.

Did you know there are still a few magical and mystical locations left on earth? Undiscovered sanctuaries where pink, fluffy unicorns go and lay their eggs, raise their young.  Or where they crystallize the urine of angels to make pixie dust.  (Either that or it’s made from the cremated remains of Care Bears. The jury is still out on that one…)

284413cc8247c884e3ad04342fc7fc00

Our ashes make Peter Pan fly

I know of such a wondrous place.  It’s in our house.  It’s my bathroom.

And not because it is my private space where I can let loose, so to speak, where I can just let it be, if you know what I mean, and most importantly, take as long as I need. No.  It’s actually amazing for the exact opposite reason.  My Our (The Wife might be reading this) bathroom is a porthole to an otherworldly fantasy land.  And I say this because it’s the only plausible explanation I can come up with as to why everyone in my house would be using it!

I’m not a selfish kind of person.  I don’t mind sharing stuff.  Especially if you pay me for it.  As long as the request doesn’t include my Wife, my car, my house, my food or my bathroom.

It’s easy to understand why I need a shower when I arrive home from gym in the morning. I look like your average, run-of-the-mill, exhausted, soaking wet, forty-two year old male. It’s not a good look.  In order to get my morning hug from the love of my life, I need to come clean.  Body and mind.

Imagine my frustration when I finally drag myself up the stairs and find the door to my bathroom locked with Princess inside, doing whatever teenage girls do in a bathroom.  My bathroom.  I’m not a pervert and we’re certainly not that kind of family so I bite the urge to beat the door down and just let her be.  I know, I’m a great Dad.  Besides I still need to sit on my bed and do nothing.  I love to wait.

Eventually I hear a croak as the bathroom door signals her exit and hence the reason why it’s not oiled yet.

Imagine my frustration when I rush towards the door and miss the exact moment when Princess and Dude exchange occupation of MY bathroom.  Dude is a dude, and I’m a Dude, so I simply open the door wanting to chase him out.  Only to find him getting into the shower, clearing his voice, singing whatever teenage boys sing in a shower.  He sees me, shrieks in a very high octave (maybe a bit too high) and I leave quickly, to allow him his privacy.  I go back to sit on my bed and do nothing for another ten minutes. Don’t you love my life?

Eventually he shouts in his normal voice, “I’m done!” and rush down stairs.

I’m finally able to enter my sanctuary.  I sigh and get into the shower.  If I’m lucky enough to still find some liquid soap left, I…

(Let me interject here quickly…Modern technology has given us great gifts. E-mail, blue tooth, music streaming, Netflix and liquid soap.  The only bar you should still be using is the one you find at a gym.)

Where was I?  Oh yes…I rinse my body with warm water and wash away the sweat and frustration. I make plans for the day, realign my center and get out of the shower as a vibrant, fresh, clean, positive thinking, happy individual.

Only to realise that all the towels were removed by the previous occupants of MY bathroom.  The courteous teenagers took all of it with them.  I’m left cold and dripping in my birthday suit.  I release a desperate cry for help but I know it’s useless, muffled by headphones plugged into smartphones.  It will have no effect.  I might as well be a lost soul on a deserted island.

I only have one option.  Yes dear readers, you know what I’m about to do…a naked dash to our bedroom where Wife always leaves a towel on the bed.  I utter a short prayer before I commence my semi-fast attempt at running, only because as a loving parent I don’t want to destroy my kids by allowing them to see their father naked.  They’ve endured enough already.

Most of the times I’m lucky and get away with it.  What can I say?  A face-cloth is not always big enough.

Once fully dressed I start complaining to the Wife about the lack of privacy we seem to have in this house.  And the lack of respect for the needs of others and what about all the bad habits the kids are fostering these days.  Wife says “Y9T4ojA4jces Dear” three times in a way that’s not condescending at all.  She hands me my coffee and all is forgotten.

Until tomorrow morning.

Did I mention that each of them have their own bathroom downstairs?  Which is why I’m going to tell the next unicorn/Care Bear/flying kid I see, to stay the hell out of my bathroom.  Sorry love, I meant our bathroom.

FabFridayTeam

 

Advertisements

30 thoughts on “Our bathroom is the place where dreams go to die.

  1. Geez, I was feeling sorry for you, having only one bathroom, and thinking how much you needed a second one. But you mean those brats have their own bathroom? Time to crack down and declare your bath off limits. Period.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Perhaps if you just full on strutted yourself on the upstairs level, the downstairs bathrooms might feel a little more magically appealing to the kids. After all, pretty much every child ends up being traumatized in some sort of way. Most of live to talk to about!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. There has to be a solution. Turn off the hot water to your shower so they can’t use it. Put a lock on it and not tell them where the key is. Fake spiders to scare them out. Or just admit defeat and sit on the bed until they move out 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  4. That’s what dads do – sit on the bed and patiently wait. The marks of a very cool dad! 😄

    Sorry about your bathroom space – they hv their own bathroom and using yours. That’s annoying. There must be something incredibly magical in there!

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Pingback: The Sounds of Silence | Ah dad…

  6. Pingback: #FabFridayPost Linky #36 {17.06.16}

  7. Pingback: #FabFridayPost | Ah dad…

I won't bite, I promise...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s