Some afternoons, be they on a weekend or after a long working day, call – nay, beg – for taking some time out to relax. Such was the feeling I had recently, when I retired to the bathroom with a book, a drink and very stern instructions that I was not to be interrupted, no way, no how.
This time I even shut the door; on other occasions the children have stood at the edge, where the tiles meet the carpet, careful not to overstep the bounds, staring at me with large, children of the corn guilt-tripping eyes because I’ve not let them in with me (although eventually I buckle). Not this time, I thought.
So I settled down, started reading, and basically began to relax and feel somewhat normal again.
Until, the footsteps.
Thump, thump, thump.
Coming in my direction, from the lounge room, down the stairs.
Thump, thump, thump.
I shut my eyes, secretly knowing what was coming. I’ve heard those particular footsteps before, the way they strike the ground and had purpose. There was no stopping them.
The bathroom door was thrown open and before I could open my mouth in protest a child had sat down on the toilet behind – mere centimetres away – and unleashed a urine stream without comment or apology.
That’s how my baths go. Not nearly as relaxing as others, I daresay.
Photo credit: KilljoyDivine
