I’m not saying that I sit around reading lots of ‘Mummy blogs’ to fill in all the spare time I have on my hands these days but, of all the content on all these blog pages that show up on social media and what-not; the one reoccurring joke that seems to slap you wetly in the face like a fresh caught trout is this: If you are a mother, you can never ever again enjoy a bowel movement or the expelling of urine in peace.
The very second buttocks touch porcelain a small signal is sent to the brain of your children to come barrelling down the hall and fling themselves bodily at the door like the zombies from World war Z (The shit movie not the awesome book) until they shove their faces into the room ala Jack from The Shining and ask what’s for dinner or some shit.
Unlike good old dad who can just piss away in solitude. Pouring away voluminous torrents of urine in perfect serenity without a care in the world. The only disturbance to his child free wonderland is when his bladder is finally empty, as dry as a Serengeti summer.
And like many MANY of the jokes to a dads expense (which advertising execs will freely admit is the only joke left available in the free world where not a single social justice warrior is offended), everyone will agree.
When I say they agree, I mean the women will laugh till they snort and the men will do that ‘I totally support and understand this’ half hearted high eyebrowed dead eyed laugh that they do when their wife insists they read this hilarious article from Mamma mia.
Well I’m here to call bullshit.
Not only am I calling bullshit, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it is FAR more hazardous for a male to be disturbed by children when in the bathroom than it is for females.
Sure, dad doesn’t have to put up with kids attacking the door like a Hun at the Great wall, but do you know what the advantage of sitting down in the bathroom is as opposed to standing?
When you stand, the enemy gains the element of surprise.
Strap in kids. I’m gunna tell a story of how I got my own piss on me.
Imagine you’re a dad. You’re looking after your lovely little spawn who’s been acting like a right proper turd as its getting close to her bedtime and why the hell would she get cranky like a normal reasonable child when she’s sleepy when she can just start getting hyperactive and generally all-round batshit fucking loco?
Be me with my kid basically.
So she’s being nuts, I need to pee, I turn on the wiggles and I let their multi-coloured melodic hypnosis work its magic for a few minutes till I feel its safe to make a break for the toilet while she’s distracted by ‘Fruit salad’ (Yummy-yummy).
As I stand there, enjoying the therapeutic reverberations of water on water, I hear a sudden raspy ragged breathing sound. I look out the door and down the hall, nothing. A second later, the same sound, I check again, nothing. I still hear the wiggles and I assume my little monster is busy standing on the couch in rapt fascination as an overpaid understudy in a giant green dinosaur suit pretends to eat roses.
It wasn’t until I was almost done hosing down the deck that I realised how wrong that assumption was. My blissful ignorance shattered into a million piss soaked pieces as my spawns tiny ice cold hand pressed against the back of my bare knee.
Remember how I said I was almost done? Well, as I shrieked like a man I will admit I did lose most if not all control of my actions. And loosed what was remaining in the tank all over the front of me.
In conclusion, my toddler has ninja-esq sneaking skills, managed to creep up behind me, breath down my neck (Back of knees) in her raspy serial killer like exhaling (she had a cough at the time) then, quite literally, scared the piss out of me.
Now you’re probably thinking ‘Yeah sure but that’s just one incident, and you know for next time now so how bad could it really be?’
And you’re semi-right. I did know for next time. The next time I heard her raspy little breathing I knew it was behind me and I knew it was her, and I knew to expect a cold hand to a warm portion of my flesh so I was completely mentally steeled to the coming onslaught of creepy toddlerism.
But, much like the velociraptors of Jurrasic Park, my child is cunning and adaptable. She knows that the same thing wont always work twice, to scare the piss out of dad you must change your tactics.
I can’t describe the impending fear, or the sound of the scream that was caught in my throat, as I looked down blissfully unaware, and at the very last moment saw the long handled silicon mixing spoon from the second draw in the kitchen reach slowly from behind my legs and into my oncoming heavy stream.
Have you ever gone to wash a spoon and just got water absolutely everywhere and all over yourself? Like shirt, arms, face, eyes, a little water in the mouth?
Apparently my daughter has.
I mean, she had to have learnt it from somewhere.