Minding My P’s
By: Ann Brown
I am NEVER going to buy Vesicare. I don’t care if my overactive bladder (which I don’t have. Yet) explodes and kills me. Have you seen their commercial? That family who is suffering because Mom has a urinary condition that has the kids all bent out of shape? The condition she has because she gave birth to the kids through her body, after the babies played bumper cars with her poor bladder for nine months.
What a bunch of assholes, that family. Check them out, looking all tragic and shit and giving Mom the stink eye when she has to excuse herself to find a bathroom. And the boy, the kid moving into the dorm, he’s all freaked because Mom is gone for a few minutes.
Where’s Mom? Help! Mom? Are you in the bathroom? MOM?”
Yeah, that kid is going to adjust easily to college life. He’ll be back home by Thanksgiving. Still a virgin.
And poor, incontinent Mom is on the toilet, rushing through her pee, not even able to enjoy it because she had been away from the family for, what, seven minutes and she knows there is gonna be hell to pay because of it. When she returned to the dorm room, they probably froze her out, refused to talk to her, wouldn’t accept the Rice Krispie treats she had made for them.
I’ll tell you this much: when my kids moved into their college dorm rooms, I bet their favorite part of the weekend is when I left the room. Second only to the part when I left the college. And left the state. I mean, my kids love me and shit but they are not creepy about it.
Anyway, when my kids were young, they just followed me right into the bathroom. I hated that; not because it was a problem to pee in front of them – I can pee in front of anyone – but because the bathroom was the only place I could hide from them. Oh, don’t give me that look. Like you never want to hide from your family.
It’s so fucking hard to hide from your kids. And I don’t mean, hard as in “I love them so much I could never even imagine hiding from them.” I mean, it’s hard. Modern houses all have those open floor plans. And I can’t fit under the bed or behind the dishwasher. Once, when the kids were little, I tried to hide in the linen closet when I was stealing their Halloween candy but they found me. And even though stuffing contraband Almond Joy fun size bars into your mouth in a stuffy linen closet isn’t as satisfying as you might think it would be, it beats the hell out of locking yourself in the bathroom to sneak them, having to make pretend pooping sounds while you do it to keep the kids out.
Although, truth be told, hiding from them is still way better than being captive to them all fucking day, arguing (and losing) when they insist that your favorite fruit is banana, not mango, and acting out dramatic scenes from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoons until you purposely eat half a jar of home canned tomatoes with bulging lids just so you can be hospitalized and get the hell away from them for a couple of days.
I just don’t get why a mom would NOT want an excuse to lock herself in the bathroom a hundred times a day. Teach your kids the term “female urinary incontinence” when they are babies and you have just bought yourself a world of privacy.
Now, please excuse me for a moment.