The door that shall ever remain closed to my husband

No, not the door you’re thinking.  Not the “back door.”  I’m talking about the bathroom door. 

A week or two ago, Baby Sideburns posted on her facebook page clues that one has been married a long time.  By the way, if you have kids and you’re not following Baby Sideburns, what are you waiting for?  She is the most awesomely funny mommy blogger ever.  Once, I would have aspired to be her, back when I thought I would be a humor blogger.  But then I started blogging and realized I’m way more serious and earnest than I ever would have imagined.  Who knew?  Anyway, her list included things like “Your maiden name starts to sound weird to you.”  (Yes. And also the word "maiden."  We really still call it that, huh?)  “You can say words like vagina to your husband without flinching.”  (Um, I can pretty much say vagina to almost anyone without flinching.)  “You’ll ask him to buy tampons for you.”  (Husbands shop?)   

The comments thread though, that was where the magic happened.  Hundreds of women proceeded to talk about dropping a deuce in front of their man, or hanging out putting on their makeup or showering while their hairier half dropped his kids off at the pool. 

No.  Just no.

As I shuddered inwardly at the idea of my hubby coming in to shower and shave while I did the third S, I began to wonder if maybe I’m just weird and repressed.  I grew up in a family of six with one bathroom.  It was not at all uncommon to have someone pee in the tub in desperation while someone else leisurely flipped through a Reader’s Digest on the toilet.  Oh, while a third person washed their face in the sink, and someone else did hair or makeup.  All within like three feet of each other.  That totally happened.  Other than the Ghostbusters “cross the streams” jokes when two or three dudes were peeing at the same time, it kind of sucked.  I was never really comfortable with it, but if you waited to do your (80’s South Jersey Aqua-netted) hair until no one was taking a crap, you might have had to go to school without a magnificent tower of bangs to show how cool you were.  If you waited to pee until the toilet was free, you might have had to go in the backyard on a tree, like your brothers routinely did. 

It was forced extreme intimacy and I never liked it.  So maybe when I moved out, I went too far the other way.  I’ll pee in front of someone, but that’s it.  The other stuff is private.  I basically want no one watching me.  And I have no interest whatsoever in watching anyone else.  Now that my kids can (mostly) wipe their own butts, I’m pretty much hoping I never have to deal with or in any way experience anyone else’s excrement ever again.  If it came down to it, would I caretake my husband or kids or anyone else I loved? Of course I would.  If I couldn’t afford to pay someone else to do it. 

But here were these hundreds of women talking about how they have great conversations with their man while hanging out on the toilet.  Was I crazy?  Only one way to know… I asked my sister and my best friend.   One has an open door policy.  The other doesn’t.  My friend then proceeded to ask pretty much everyone she knew, which is so awesome.  I just imagine each of her friends getting a text: “Do you guys crap with the door open?”  I really know how to start a conversation, huh?  Yeah, I’m a big hit at parties. 

So it turns out it’s pretty mixed.  Some do, some don’t, lots mostly don’t, but are OK with someone coming in to give them a roll of TP or whatever.  I’m on the extreme end.  No TP transfers even.  I have found myself trapped exactly twice in my ten year marriage, and both times he knew to stay behind the door and just throw in a roll.  Good husband.  Don’t watch me.  And don’t breathe until the door is shut again.  Not that I’m, like, extra gross or whatever.  My crap is just the normal amount of gross.  But that’s plenty gross enough for me.

I guess I’m kind of a proponent of maintaining a certain amount of mystery.  I just find someone more appealing if I have not recently experienced the sight, sound, or smell of their poop.  I’m not a blushing newlywed.  I just think some things are private.  Maybe it’s a luxury because we have two bathrooms in close proximity.  He often wants to shower when I am having my “caffeine response,” as it were.  So I use the hall bathroom if I know he needs to get ready for work soon. 

There is a part of me that wonders if I am missing out on the magic of complete open-door intimacy.  And then I think about having to smell his crap while I’m brushing my teeth, and I’m like, no, no, I’m good with it.  

Car conversation: My son, the bachelor

Sooo, I was having some random conversation with the kids that ended, as these conversations often do, with "Because I'm the Mommy and you're the kids, so I'm the boss."

Son: "When will you not be the boss?"

Me: "When you're 18.  You'll be a grown-up when you're 18 and then you can do whatever you want."

Son: "So when we're 18 we'll get married and have kids?"

Me: "If you want to, but it's a good idea to wait to get married until you've been a grown-up for a little while, so you make sure you find the very best person to marry.  And it's a good idea to wait to have kids until you're older too, because once you have kids, you can't do whatever you want anymore.  Mommy and Daddy used to go to movies and restaurants and travel to other countries, and then after we had kids, it's harder to do that stuff because we have to get a babysitter.  So when you're 18, you can do what you want, but I think you should wait to have kids until you're older so you can have some fun being a grown-up first.  Mommy was 33 when I had you, and Daddy was 50."

Son: "I don't want to have kids at all."

Me: "Why not?"

Son: "Because I want to do whatever I want all the time."

Me: "You don't have to have kids if you don’t want, but you know what's great about having kids?  I love Daddy and I love Aunt Rebecca and Mimom and Poppie.  I love lots of people very much, but when you guys were born, I loved you more than I ever loved anyone else.  I didn’t know I could love anyone that much.  And I think it’s really great to have that much love.  When you hug me and kiss me, that is the happiest I have ever been in my whole life.  So I don’t mind that I can’t go to movies because you guys make me feel so much love.”

Son:  “I still don’t want kids.  I just want to play Wii all day long.”

Me: “Do you want to get married, or not?”

Son: “No.”

Daughter: “But what about **** (my son’s best female friend, who has planned their wedding and whom he calls “My love” and has agreed to marry someday)?”

Son: “No, I love her, but I don’t want to marry her.  I just want to play Wii.”

Me: “You can still play Wii if you get married.  You can even play Wii if you have kids.  Daddy plays Wii with you.”

Son: “No, because then I would have to take care of them.  I would have to take care of my family.”

Me: “OK.”

The end.

On marriage

My daughter, prompted by the lovely people in Disney’s marketing department, has become interested in brides. The Disney Princess Polly Pocket bride and groom 3-pack, a bridal veil I picked up for her at a thrift store a few months ago, and playing bride with her other toys. We were playing, as usual, with Mario characters, and the twin Princess Peaches decided to get married. (No, not to each other.) For my Peach’s groom, I chose Mario. My daughter chose the less obvious Toad. I guess she’s into a man who is the right height for frequent motor-boating, although surely that gigantic hat would get in the way.

So I asked her, “How do two people get married?”

Her answer: “They dance.”

“That’s it? They dance and then they’re married?”

“Yes.”

Thanks Disney. Yeah, when I think about it, that’s pretty much how it works. They wear wedding clothes and dance, and poof, they’re married. And then the movie ends. Watching them actually be married with how little they knew about each other… watching them try to work it out as their beauty fades and they pop out a couple of kids… that would be a very different movie. But I’m not here to rag on Disney.

I asked next, “After they’re married, what do married people do together?”

“They hug.”

“What else?”

“And kiss, kiss, kiss.”

So far, very sweet. But she goes on.

“Sometimes one gets on the other one’s head.” Um, what?!

She then demonstrates this by showing Mario lying down on the ground and Peach standing on his head. My brain pretty much interprets this as a Mario moustache ride. I have no idea what my daughter intends, but it’s too late. There’s no going back once you picture the Mario moustache ride.

“What else?” I say, NOT giggling.

“The get up on the table together.” And do what? I will not ask.

“Anything else?”

“They watch a show together, and that’s it.”

Now you’re talking, kid. Hug, kiss, moustache ride, get up on the table, and then watch a show. Awesome.

Next kid. Now that I know how fun this is, I am curious what my son will say.

“What do married people do together?”

His response: “I don’t know. Do you know?”

“Yes.”

“Then just say it.”

“I want to know what you think.”

“They go round and round, holding hands like ring around the rosy.” Hmm, Disney again? Or cartoons? A sweet image.

“What else?”

“They do stuff.” Do stuff? I swear there was a naughty twinkle in his eye when he said this. It’s like he knows there’s something there that he doesn’t totally understand. He’s very innocent, of course, but just like me at his age, I think he knows there’s something more, and he’s intrigued. I may be projecting, but I don’t think so. I’m gonna have to watch that one.

“What kind of stuff.”

“Like, check their computers.”

Ah, reality. You are not a Disney movie.

"The chicken wings"

In a few weeks, hubs and I are going away for the weekend for the first time since the kiddos were born. I know, I know. Our pediatrician suggested we go away overnight when they were two. But who was I gonna sic them on leave them with? My parents or my mother-in-law could handle them for a few hours, but when the babes were younger, they were A LOT of work. No one in their fifties, sixties, or seventies has that much energy. Hey wait, my husband is fifty-four. Huh, maybe I should cut him a little slack when he passes out on the couch in the middle of True Blood. Anyway, my sister could have maybe watched them, but she was pregnant and had a four-year-old too, and watching all three kids while also focusing on puking and napping seemed like a lot to ask. But now my kids are almost four, and they are a lot easier than they were, so my sis is going to watch them for our first weekend away.

So where are we going? A romantic B&B? Um, no. We're going to Atlantic City. We’re gonna play blackjack for hours, and see some comedy, and stay up all night drinking, and eat room service bacon and eggs with mimosas in bed in the morning (where morning might mean noon), and then go see Harry Potter, and then come home. That is so much more my speed than a B&B with roses on the wallpaper and pretty china teacups.

So, it's not the most romantic-sounding weekend plan ever, but it fits us very well, and includes many of the things we love to do, and it's perfect. I'm letting the hubs plan the whole thing, while retaining veto power. He has been researching restaurants (including one with an outdoor cigar patio overlooking the ocean — Yay!!) He suggested we get a late lunch so we could gamble later into the evening without losing our (cheap-o, low stakes) table. He suggested... wait for it... Hooters.

Let me give that its own line in case you're skimming. On our anniversary weekend, on our first trip away overnight since the kids were born, he wants to go to Hooters.

I didn't know my eyebrows went that high. He sees my face and just keeps going on and on defensively about the "chicken wings," and every time he does it, I make snarky air quotes. "The chicken wings, huh? Yeah. I'm sure they’re delicious" (eye roll). I actually believe him that this is about the chicken wings. I know his sexy aesthetic quite well after all of these years, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t include tube socks over opaque panty hose, but it's just so freakin' funny to give him a hard time about this. It's too easy and hilarious, and it wouldn't be any fun for me to let him off the hook. He actually said to me, "I don’t care if the servers were all guys and dressed like Mormons, I would still want to eat those chicken wings." That image makes my chicken wing air quotes much more disturbing, really.

So if he's that excited about the "chicken wings," I’m willing to concede. We'll go for sushi or seafood or something fantastic for our late-night post-gambling dinner. But for lunch on our anniversary weekend, on our first weekend away in four years, we will be dining at Hooters.

On opposites

Opposites attract, right? Because it’s a saying, and a song too, and Paula Abdul wouldn't lie to us about being attracted to an animated cat who steals the covers.

As I was cleaning up the piles of books purged from my husband’s book hoard, including travel guides from the 80’s and roughly 300 back-of-the-toilet books about cats, I found myself contemplating opposites. He hoards. I purge. It’s one of the realities of our relationship, one of the domains in which we used to clash, but a difference we have come simply to accept with humor and just a tinge of eye rolling. But this dichotomy between us, is it even really true? (Dichotomies rarely are, after all.) I mean, I have something like 100 pairs of shoes, many of which haven’t fit me properly since my pregnancy. I do love to purge stuff and get belongings out of my house and out of my life forever. And I can be truly ruthless about it. But I am not by any means the world’s best purger. I hold on to things for sentimental reasons as much as the next person, unless the next person is my husband. He’s not a true hoarder like on TV. He just has a sentimental attachment to objects at a level I find mystifying.

Here’s another example. Married to anyone else, I suspect I would be the ooey-gooey parent. I am a firm believer in the “choose your battles” approach to parenting, and I don’t choose a whole lot of battles. No biting or hitting. Absolutely no whining. No eating junk if you haven’t eaten something that looks like real food. And go to sleep so I can watch The Bachelorette in peace. That’s pretty much it. Not really, but pretty much. If they want to jump on the couch or dump out the matchbox car bin, whatever. I’ll make them separate meals from us if we’re eating something they don’t like or don’t know whether they like. I don’t care. They have to try a bite of what we’re eating, but I’d rather they eat some rotisserie chicken from the grocery store and a bunch of raw fruits and veggies than fight to make them eat a taco. I don’t threaten big punishments like “We won’t go to the birthday party,” because I don’t want to have to follow through on that, so things never get more serious than a time out around here.

We joke, when the kids won’t sleep, about which of us will go in to “beat them.” (We have never hit our kids, not even a little slap. The “beat them” is purely a joke between us, and we never say it in front of the kids.) “Pause Tivo, please, so I can go in and beat them,” I’ll say when the sounds of giggling and bed-jumping get loud enough to detract from DVR'd episodes of The Voice. Here’s what “beating them” looks like. I go in, use my stern-Mommy voice, and tell them it’s bedtime. I vaguely threaten to take toys out of their bed if I have to come in again. Then, if it’s before 10pm or so, I probably kiss or hug them before leaving. Yeah, I know, my kids have it rough.

And I’m the heavy.

My husband will go in to “beat them,” and I will come in 15 minutes later, bored of playing scrabble on my phone, to find him in the recliner with a kid or two gleefully snuggled in his lap.

So I’m the disciplinarian and he’s the softy. Opposites, I guess. Because someone has to be the disciplinarian. Someone has to be the purger or we would end up on an episode of Hoarders. Someone has to be the social director. Someone has to be responsible with the money. Oh wait, crap, neither of us has actually stepped up to that one. Well I’m not doing it. I have to be the disciplinarian, so I’m not being the purse string holder too. Both of those jobs suck.

So what was my point? (Clearly I am not the focused one). Oh right, my point was that I’m skeptical about the opposites attract thing. I’m starting to think that we drift into our opposite roles as a marriage goes on, finding our niches and then solidifying them in our self-concept. It’s how crap gets done. It’s how we don’t drown in a sea of outdated travel books. It’s how we don’t have kids who run wild like dingoes. Someone is the cook. Someone is the heavy. Someone is the neat-freak.

In the end, even though it’s a continuum and not a dichotomy, I’m kind of glad I’m the purger, because there’s no one to make me get rid of my shoes. Those things are totally gonna come back in style, I’m telling you. One day, they will be the height of retro-awesome.