The Synchronised Loo
I live in a house populated mainly by males. And thus, their bodies, and of course their boy ‘bits’. Most of the time this doesn’t give rise to any greater issues than, I can only imagine, living an oestrogen-overwhelmed existence.
Indeed, most of the time I’d rather not dwell overly on the stereotypical bleedin’-boy-bits-obvious. Yes, boys (big and small) find farting hilarious… and I (still and forever) do not. Yes, males (admittedly more young, than old, with the exception of on a football pitch) do walk around with one oblivious happy hand cupping their crown jewels… and I (for reasons of both anatomy and decorum) do not. And yes, those who wee standing up are blissfully blind to the soggy consequences of not putting the loo seat down… and I (unfortunately and frequently) certainly am not.
Since acquiring my own beloved ensuite and adopting an ‘I can’t hear you!’ hands-over-ears approach to any emissions, I am mercifully shielded from the less appealing realities of living with boys’ bodies. Today however, there was no escaping my boys and their bottoms. The morning went a bit like this:
08.23 ‘Hurry up,’ I shout up the stairs, ‘brush teeth, wash faces… we need to get to school!’
08.24 ‘Coming mum,’ replies eldest Sensible Son from his room, ‘just going to the loo.’
08.25 Screams overhead. ‘What’s going on?’ I ask. ‘I need the loo,’ wails middle Binary Boy, ‘and Sensible Son’s in there!’ ‘You need the loo right at this moment too? OK, OK… you can use my ensuite – just this once though,’ I tell him, ‘and hurry up!’ Two down, one to go. ‘Feisty Fellow? Where are you?’ Silence.
08.26 ‘Feisty Fellow! Where on earth are you?’ ‘In here, mum,’ shouts a small voice from the downstairs loo. ‘What are you doing in there?’ I ask, realising as I do what an utterly ridiculous question this is. He replies, surprised, ‘A poo, mum. Why?’
And thus I experience the synchronised loo.
‘Give me strength,’ I say, five minutes later as I stand by door, car keys in hand, still waiting for my loo-bound boys. One by one they tumble out of their respective rooms, drying their hands on their sweatshirts as they rush to put on their shoes. Eventually we jump in the car and zoom to school.
Sometime later, I get back home and carry out the obligatory ‘they washed their hands but did they flush?’ spot checks. ‘Could be worse I suppose,’ I reflect, as I pull the various chains. I remember an article I’d read once about how girls living together often find their hormonal cycles go in synch.
An excess of boy bottoms I can just about cope with. Oestrogen overload I fear I could not.