Is It A Kitten Or A Child?
During The Nanny Years, I developed the sort of land-speed record bathroom habits that only childcare providers or parents have mastered. There seems to be some sort of Murphy’s Law stipulation that says after 4 hours of eagle-eyeing a child, the 36 seconds in which you rush to the bathroom, leave the door cracked open just in case so you can hear any baby screams or children gasping for air, and void your bowels in a rush that’s probably medically unhealthy are the same 36 seconds in the day that the child inevitably finds the glue in the crafts bin, or climbs onto the couch and then falls off the back, or gets tangled in his blankets in his crib and puts up an unholy ruckus trying to wiggle free that makes you think that an intruder has entered the house and is trying to abscond with said child.
Since the end of The Nanny Years, I have learned to love my quiet, uninterrupted, and long-in-duration bathroom time. I read my magazines. I’ve even been known to paint my toenails while already sitting (multitasking for the win!). I write grocery lists as I mentally walk down the aisles and make a menu for the week.
This was BK— Before Kitten.
Because my little cat, my Velcro shadow, my tiny terror, my monster of love, goes into panic mode the instant I walk in the bathroom and shut the door in his face. Even if he didn’t see me go in, I hear him running around the house, looking for me before he finally deduces where I am and sets up post outside the door, howling, yowling, and generally trying to convince me that his inability to be alone trumps my bodily functions.
Again— pet owner, or furry, bastardized motherhood?