major holidays and occasional stabs at education, we didn't see them again until it was time for them to get their own apartments.
What did they do in there? They projected home movies of Mommy and Daddy into the toilet bowl and then flushed so our faces would swirl and appear distorted.
They floated light bulbs in the bathtub and shot at them with water pistols. They wrapped a dead horned toad in a flag once and buried him at “sea.” They decorated the toilet seat like a cake, using Dad's shaving cream for the lettering.
And when I pounded on the door and shouted, "What
are you doing in there?" the response was always the same.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing” translates into something quite different for a parent and a child.
“Nothing” to a parent means you are staring into space with your hands in your lap, your eyes glazed, and your breathing shallow.
When a child is doing “nothing,” that is a signal for parents to dial 911. He is usually doing “nothing” behind a closed bathroom door, a dog is barking, water is running under the door, a sibling is begging for mercy, and there is a strange odor of burning fur and the sound of a thousand camels running in place.
I always wanted to know how long they had been doing “nothing,” whom they were doing “nothing” with, and how come it took them fifteen minutes to answer the question.
Kids are drawn to a bathroom like a magnet. There's a mystique about it from birth. Immediately after they enter the world, an inner voice says, “As soon as you learn how to walk or crawl, Bippie, you can toddle into the bathroom and throw your shoes into the toilet.”
“What are shoes?” asks the infant.
“Something you take off your feet every chance you get.”
“What's a toilet?”
“The place you throw your shoes in to make it bubble.”
I looked around. I had spent the best years of my life in this dreary steam bath trying to train one of them to a toilet seat. I wish I had a dime for every day I put a kid on the throne and sat on the edge of the bathtub and described the water scenes from Deliverance. Sometimes I threatened them with a hole in their bicycle seat and a plastic liner in their tux at the prom.
They spent so much time in the bathroom, they thought the sky had a light and an exhaust fan in it. Small wonder they grew up with an affinity for this room. It became their retreat... their mountaintop ... their last bastion of privacy. It assured them diplomatic immunity from every chore you can think of.
“Where's your brother? I want him to help carry in the groceries from the car.”
“He's in the bathroom.”
“Hurry up or you're going to miss your school bus and I'll have to drive you to school.”
“I'm in the bathroom.”
“Are you in bed?”
“I'm in the bathroom.”
“Could you let the dog out?”
“I'm in the bathroom.”
“Come to dinner!”
“I'm in the bathroom.”
In my nightmares, I could hear a minister at the altar saying to the bride, “Where is the bridegroom?” and a voice from the distance shouting, “I'm in the bathroom.”
Looking back, I realized most of my communication with the kids was exchanged outside of this very door, usually at 2 in the morning.
“Are you home?”
“Who did you think it was?”
“What time is it?”
“What time do you think it is?”
“Have you eaten?”
“Don't I always?”
“Did Greg get in touch with you?”
“Did he call?”
“Did you get gas for the car?”
“Didn't I say I would?”
“Are there any towels in there?”
“Aren't there always?”
“Do you want me to call you late in the morning?”
“Are you serious?”
“I'm going to bed. It's wonderful that we can talk together like this. A lot of kids when they reach your age become uncommunicative and you don't know what they're doing or thinking. Am I lucky or what? Don't answer that!”
As I wiped the last of the water off the floor, I stood up and surveyed the room with pride.
“The
What did they do in there? They projected home movies of Mommy and Daddy into the toilet bowl and then flushed so our faces would swirl and appear distorted.
They floated light bulbs in the bathtub and shot at them with water pistols. They wrapped a dead horned toad in a flag once and buried him at “sea.” They decorated the toilet seat like a cake, using Dad's shaving cream for the lettering.
And when I pounded on the door and shouted, "What
are you doing in there?" the response was always the same.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing” translates into something quite different for a parent and a child.
“Nothing” to a parent means you are staring into space with your hands in your lap, your eyes glazed, and your breathing shallow.
When a child is doing “nothing,” that is a signal for parents to dial 911. He is usually doing “nothing” behind a closed bathroom door, a dog is barking, water is running under the door, a sibling is begging for mercy, and there is a strange odor of burning fur and the sound of a thousand camels running in place.
I always wanted to know how long they had been doing “nothing,” whom they were doing “nothing” with, and how come it took them fifteen minutes to answer the question.
Kids are drawn to a bathroom like a magnet. There's a mystique about it from birth. Immediately after they enter the world, an inner voice says, “As soon as you learn how to walk or crawl, Bippie, you can toddle into the bathroom and throw your shoes into the toilet.”
“What are shoes?” asks the infant.
“Something you take off your feet every chance you get.”
“What's a toilet?”
“The place you throw your shoes in to make it bubble.”
I looked around. I had spent the best years of my life in this dreary steam bath trying to train one of them to a toilet seat. I wish I had a dime for every day I put a kid on the throne and sat on the edge of the bathtub and described the water scenes from Deliverance. Sometimes I threatened them with a hole in their bicycle seat and a plastic liner in their tux at the prom.
They spent so much time in the bathroom, they thought the sky had a light and an exhaust fan in it. Small wonder they grew up with an affinity for this room. It became their retreat... their mountaintop ... their last bastion of privacy. It assured them diplomatic immunity from every chore you can think of.
“Where's your brother? I want him to help carry in the groceries from the car.”
“He's in the bathroom.”
“Hurry up or you're going to miss your school bus and I'll have to drive you to school.”
“I'm in the bathroom.”
“Are you in bed?”
“I'm in the bathroom.”
“Could you let the dog out?”
“I'm in the bathroom.”
“Come to dinner!”
“I'm in the bathroom.”
In my nightmares, I could hear a minister at the altar saying to the bride, “Where is the bridegroom?” and a voice from the distance shouting, “I'm in the bathroom.”
Looking back, I realized most of my communication with the kids was exchanged outside of this very door, usually at 2 in the morning.
“Are you home?”
“Who did you think it was?”
“What time is it?”
“What time do you think it is?”
“Have you eaten?”
“Don't I always?”
“Did Greg get in touch with you?”
“Did he call?”
“Did you get gas for the car?”
“Didn't I say I would?”
“Are there any towels in there?”
“Aren't there always?”
“Do you want me to call you late in the morning?”
“Are you serious?”
“I'm going to bed. It's wonderful that we can talk together like this. A lot of kids when they reach your age become uncommunicative and you don't know what they're doing or thinking. Am I lucky or what? Don't answer that!”
As I wiped the last of the water off the floor, I stood up and surveyed the room with pride.
“The
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