Yes, I have Philip’s birthday to cover. There is Lent to discuss. I haven’t even mentioned the teenager in the house.
However, this needs to be addressed: We dove into Presidents Day this morning. Our very informative books about Washington and Lincoln as children even informed us about the types of bathrooms they used. Inquiring minds want to know! I guess. Tess was downright smug about “being lucky” that we knew what an outhouse was.
The boys and I stared at her in awkward silence.
“I guess . . . ”
The thing is this: normally I’m the one who is smug about having indoor plumbing. Sure, I’ve spent a fair amount of time over the years wishing and dreaming about having been born in a different era. But when it comes down to it? Well, I like me some deodorant, tooth paste and a flushing toilet.
I began to rethink it all today. These days I can’t find 30 seconds to string together in which I am alone. Sleep schedules are off, changes have taken place and this introvert has been stretched thin. Thin, I say. There is always someone around and it can, at times, make me feel like I’m drowning. Most days I’m too busy to even remember to use the flushy let alone enjoy it. And the high rate of being found there, too?
I had the thought today, as I was barged in on twice in the 30 seconds I was in the restroom that I actually envy the mother’s of the past. Outhouses were set back just a bit from the house so there was that short stretch away from the house, the change of scenery. There was likely an interior lock on the door. If not, she could still probably use it in peace because who wants to be hanging out around the privy anyway? Perhaps she’d have to take little children with her, but surely they’d stay outside, looking particularly fetching to a passing coyote. Or wolf. Or bear . . .
All I’m saying is, perhaps I’ve been too quick to judge the wonder of outdoor plumbing and what I wouldn’t give for just a moments peace.