I accidentally posted a picture of myself right here earlier because SOMEONE with whom I'm sharing a house messed with my blog. As Charlie Brown would say, "ARGH."
Privacy is a luxury I cannot seem to beg, buy or steal.
When my kids were little and I would "go potty," as I came to refer to it out of habit, at least two of three would blast the door open like Lenny and Squiggy:
This morning, I was in the most secluded, out of the way room in our house, my bathroom, just finishing brushing my teeth and patting a towel to my lips when Lennette and Squigette and "Carmine" filed right in, in an unplanned but perfect line, 1,2,3. They were all trying to tell or ask me something over the others' voices, and in one second, I was transported to my old, tiny bathroom, and there they were, 8, 5, and 2 years old again.
I put my forehead down on the counter top and wrapped the towel around my ears. In spite of trying to block them out, I heard something like "nothing for lunch . . . can't find the sore muscle creme . . . can they come over . . . dog ate something bad . . . it's on the rug."
Some things never change. When I was a teenager, my mom followed me into the bathroom to talk. Today at work, my staff read personal papers on my desk and on my screen. My kids won't let me go potty in peace. And my husband messed with my blog.
I wonder if the kids next door would be interested in leasing their treehouse.