The One About IBS
When I was a kid it seemed like my dad was always in the bathroom, taking, what he referred to as, his “daily constitutional”. For years I just assumed that the man had some serious stomach problems. When I grew up and had a child of my own, I finally put all of the pieces together: Bathroom time was my dad’s private time. He knew that no matter how clingy and annoying my sister and I were, the bathroom door is a line that is just too frightening to cross. He was nothing short of a genius. When I grew up and became the stay-at-home mother of a very needy child, I decided to implement this tactic into my own life. From the time my son was about 9 months old, until he was 3, my husband thought I had a severe case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. The minute that my husband would come home from work, I would clutch my stomach and say, “Thank God you’re here! I have an intestinal emergency!” I would then run off to the bathroom, where I had a stash of magazines and books, and get to work on my “alone time”. I would sometimes be in there so long, that my husband would come knocking on the door asking if I was okay. “Things are bad, honey,” I would say. “They’re really bad. Back away from the door. I don’t want you to see me like this! Save yourself!” Over the course of those 3 years, I must have read at least 100 magazines cover to cover, as well as the complete works of Joyce Carol Oates and Pat Conroy. My bathroom was my own personal library, complete with peace and quiet.
When we become parents, we suddenly have no privacy. No alone time. Nada. It’s kind of funny, because before my husband and I had a child, I always wanted to go, go, go. I couldn’t stand hanging around the house all weekend doing nothing (like my husband wanted to do). When we were on our honeymoon in Hawaii, I had every waking minute planned. I even typed up my own itinerary, complete with where we would eat each meal, and every activity we would do. We were constantly hiking, kayaking, or sightseeing. One day, I had scheduled for us to go to a private beach I had discovered in one of my guidebooks. We drove miles through sugar cane fields, and then hiked even further, until we reached the most beautiful, private beach. We spread out our towels and sat down. We watched the waves roll in for about 5 minutes, and then I said “Ok. Enough of that. Let’s go.” And we left. That was about as much sitting still that I could handle. Fast forward. We are parents. Our son is 6. We go to Belize without him for a week. What does our week consist of? Sitting in the same beach chairs every day. Drinking beer. Cat naps. Reading. This is vacation for me now. Doing absolutely NOTHING.
As parents, we don’t get enough down time. Everything revolves around our kids. I don’t even get to watch TV in my own house anymore. If my son doesn’t have control, then my husband does. There is no more “me time”. Recently, my husband wanted to go on a camping trip. While I usually go along, I have been on strike since the last one. Since I have a bladder the size of a jellybean, I have to use the potty way more often than is acceptable for tent camping. On our last trip, at about 2 am, I had to hike a path through the woods to get to the bathroom, and spotted, what I believe to be a coyote salivating over me. I then proceeded to barricade myself in the bathroom for what seemed like eons, thinking that my loving husband would sense my absence, wake up and send a search party for me. Of course, that didn’t happen, since his bladder is the size of an entire bag of jellybeans, and able to hold about 20 gallons, allowing him to sleep for up to 12 hours without waking. Realizing I was on my own, I did the only thing I could think of. I stole the 3-foot long bar that holds the many rolls of toilet paper, and I bravely headed back to our tent. I wanted to run like the wind, but since I knew that would only make more look more delicious to the wildlife, I walked, assuming that I would use the toilet paper bar as a deadly weapon, and along with my karate moves, kick some coyote butt if the opportunity arose. Thankfully, I made it back to the tent. Unfortunately, I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night for fear that the coyote’s were circling my tent, planning to scratch a hole in it and drag me out like Meryl Streep’s baby in that movie about the dingo’s. This was the last time I camped. This time my family could go without me. This time, I told my husband, I was going to stay home and have some “me time”. I was going to have a slumber party.
I know that I am 37 years old, but I am not too old for a good old-fashioned slumber party. I invited a few friends over, knowing that they would jump at the chance, since they are all in need of some “me time” as well. We started the day by floating around in the pool, without being splashed on and without being on lifeguard duty. We then moved inside for food, where we got to eat without having to make a kiddie plate first. We also had drinks without worrying about having to drive home, pay a sitter, and remain coherent enough so that nobody calls child services on us. We also played the Wii, without anyone whining about how it is their Wii, and we are too old to play it. We played Rock Band until 2 am, without worrying about having to get up at the crack with a child who just can’t physically sleep past 7 am. It was Heaven.
I have learned to cherish my “alone time” as well as my time with other grown-ups. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it is awesome. Now that my son is 8, it is getting easier. If I want to read a book, I can go to the other room and read a book. Of course I will still get interrupted every other page, but at least I get to read without pretending that I have severe diarrhea. That is progress. And by the way, don’t tell my husband about the reading in the bathroom story. As a matter of fact, don’t tell any husband’s about the reading in the bathroom story. Other over-worked moms out there may want to set up their own bathroom libraries, and we don’t want to ruin it for them. Let’s keep it our little secret.
When we become parents, we suddenly have no privacy. No alone time. Nada. It’s kind of funny, because before my husband and I had a child, I always wanted to go, go, go. I couldn’t stand hanging around the house all weekend doing nothing (like my husband wanted to do). When we were on our honeymoon in Hawaii, I had every waking minute planned. I even typed up my own itinerary, complete with where we would eat each meal, and every activity we would do. We were constantly hiking, kayaking, or sightseeing. One day, I had scheduled for us to go to a private beach I had discovered in one of my guidebooks. We drove miles through sugar cane fields, and then hiked even further, until we reached the most beautiful, private beach. We spread out our towels and sat down. We watched the waves roll in for about 5 minutes, and then I said “Ok. Enough of that. Let’s go.” And we left. That was about as much sitting still that I could handle. Fast forward. We are parents. Our son is 6. We go to Belize without him for a week. What does our week consist of? Sitting in the same beach chairs every day. Drinking beer. Cat naps. Reading. This is vacation for me now. Doing absolutely NOTHING.
As parents, we don’t get enough down time. Everything revolves around our kids. I don’t even get to watch TV in my own house anymore. If my son doesn’t have control, then my husband does. There is no more “me time”. Recently, my husband wanted to go on a camping trip. While I usually go along, I have been on strike since the last one. Since I have a bladder the size of a jellybean, I have to use the potty way more often than is acceptable for tent camping. On our last trip, at about 2 am, I had to hike a path through the woods to get to the bathroom, and spotted, what I believe to be a coyote salivating over me. I then proceeded to barricade myself in the bathroom for what seemed like eons, thinking that my loving husband would sense my absence, wake up and send a search party for me. Of course, that didn’t happen, since his bladder is the size of an entire bag of jellybeans, and able to hold about 20 gallons, allowing him to sleep for up to 12 hours without waking. Realizing I was on my own, I did the only thing I could think of. I stole the 3-foot long bar that holds the many rolls of toilet paper, and I bravely headed back to our tent. I wanted to run like the wind, but since I knew that would only make more look more delicious to the wildlife, I walked, assuming that I would use the toilet paper bar as a deadly weapon, and along with my karate moves, kick some coyote butt if the opportunity arose. Thankfully, I made it back to the tent. Unfortunately, I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night for fear that the coyote’s were circling my tent, planning to scratch a hole in it and drag me out like Meryl Streep’s baby in that movie about the dingo’s. This was the last time I camped. This time my family could go without me. This time, I told my husband, I was going to stay home and have some “me time”. I was going to have a slumber party.
I know that I am 37 years old, but I am not too old for a good old-fashioned slumber party. I invited a few friends over, knowing that they would jump at the chance, since they are all in need of some “me time” as well. We started the day by floating around in the pool, without being splashed on and without being on lifeguard duty. We then moved inside for food, where we got to eat without having to make a kiddie plate first. We also had drinks without worrying about having to drive home, pay a sitter, and remain coherent enough so that nobody calls child services on us. We also played the Wii, without anyone whining about how it is their Wii, and we are too old to play it. We played Rock Band until 2 am, without worrying about having to get up at the crack with a child who just can’t physically sleep past 7 am. It was Heaven.
I have learned to cherish my “alone time” as well as my time with other grown-ups. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it is awesome. Now that my son is 8, it is getting easier. If I want to read a book, I can go to the other room and read a book. Of course I will still get interrupted every other page, but at least I get to read without pretending that I have severe diarrhea. That is progress. And by the way, don’t tell my husband about the reading in the bathroom story. As a matter of fact, don’t tell any husband’s about the reading in the bathroom story. Other over-worked moms out there may want to set up their own bathroom libraries, and we don’t want to ruin it for them. Let’s keep it our little secret.
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