Bathroom respite brief when kids get invloved

The way I see it, my bathroom, the place where I shower and put on my make up and occasionally hide to cry a little bit, belongs to me.

It isn’t one of those luxury spas you see on the decorating channels – with a party tub, tall candles and a cozy overstuffed chair upholstered in fluffy white terrycloth and strategically placed near a table holding a glass of wine. It’s just a basic, functional, bathroom.

But it’s mine.

To my children, however, it’s a general store, or a storage closet; a place to forage for supplies. They raid it constantly, never giving a thought to the fact that I might need the things they carry off.

I try to remember to take inventory before I get in the shower, but too often I forget.

I get distracted because the moment I close the door behind me, no matter what the hour, I hear the water start in another bathroom, a sure sign that one of my teenagers is one step ahead of me. Again.

Hoping to get at least half the hot water, I jump in and reach for the shampoo. It isn’t there. Nothing I need is there. The conditioner, my body-wash and even the razor I use to shave my legs have all been scavenged.

Because someone also took all of the towels, (I’ll find them all over the house later, I’m sure) I’m left to drip while I rummage around in drawers and cabinets finding nothing but the free sample of “Flea and Tick” shampoo that came with the dog.

You know, some things should be sacred. And it seems to me that the person who brings the goodies home, the person who spent time and money choosing the shampoo that won’t fade her color, and the razor that won’t make her legs scratchy and the moisturizing body wash that will keep her skin from feeling like old luggage ought to be able to use them once in a while.

Nobody should have to wrap in a fuzzy bathmat to go looking for, say, their high-tech ultrasonic toothbrush, and they certainly shouldn’t have to find that it’s been tied to the last of the dental floss and dragged around the house to make the cat crazy.

I wouldn’t bring that up if it hadn’t happened.

A person shouldn’t get tension headaches and knotted muscles from taking a shower, but I do. A person shouldn’t have to choose between dirty hair and smelling like a wet golden retriever.

Instead of wafting out of the bathroom in a cloud of scented steam, I come out hopping mad, like a prizefighter with dry skin, stubbly legs and goose bumps from the chilly water.

The last time this happened to me, I picked up a glossy fashion magazine someone had left on the kitchen counter and took it back to bed with me, to unwind.

I flipped through a few pages and then turned off the light. Just as I drifted off to sleep the door flew open and the light beside my bed went on, blinding me.

“Mom, this is my magazine. I bought it with my own money and I’ve been looking everywhere for it,” I heard an indignant voice say. “You could have asked.”

I don’t want to rush my children, but, you know, an empty nest won’t be all bad.