Flushed Away

Today I realized that for me, motherhood pretty much begins and ends with the toilet. In just two days, I will launch the last two monkey-men out of the house for a time. The Princeling leaves tomorrow for his summer job, and the Baby Monkey leaves for a 12-day backpacking trip in New Mexico. That leaves me and Kong home alone for about two weeks. The prospect of being empty-nested, even if only temporarily, has spurred me to clean our nest. It is very near to impossible, for me at least, to keep this house spotless when the men-children are in residence. The best I can hope for it to maintain the place in "a bit of a tip."
But, knowing that they won't be home has me a bit excited. I am cleaning in anticipation that the place will stay clean for a bit. I also have two leaky faucets to contend with, and the plumber has been called. I have to admit that I'm embarrassed to let him see my bathroom and kitchen in a mess, so I spent some time cleaning those two rooms today. The upstairs bathroom has been particularly shameful, so that's where my efforts were focused.
I went upstairs on this lovely summer day and opened windows, letting a sweet breeze pour into the room. The idea was to air out the space, but more than likely, I let loose zillions of harmful bacteria into my unsuspecting community. For an hour I tackled mildew, scrubed soap scum, wiped, and polished. I left the beast, the toilet, for very last.
By the time I turned to the toilet, something came over me. It may have been the fumes of harsh chemical fluids, but I felt a rush of sentiment come over me. We live in an old home which was built in 1915, long before the invention of the master bedroom suite. Our upstairs bathroom is just that -- OUR bathroom. All five of us share it. Four men and me. When Kong and I first bought this house at the tender ages of 23 and 25 (he's older!), the bathroom was a horror. A tile tub area had basketball-sized holes bashed through the walls. These were covered with sheets of plastic taped down with duct tape. A sink hung on the wall and was propped up with 2 x 4 lumber. The whole mess was awash in lavendar paint, including the cunningly painted lavendar 2 x 4's. Oh, and there was a hideous black carpet. I choose to believe it had always been black.
One of our first big projects in our handyman special was to do something with the bathroom. It took a year of scraping to be able to afford a good plumber who replaced every bit of old rusted and leaking pipe with beautiful gleaming copper. I hung heavy vinyl wallpaper over the plywood walls. We cut and cursed and laid out a vinyl floor ourselves. I stayed home from work and installed a fiberglass tub surround, and we had our 1922 bathtub refinished. A new sink and vanity went in and lastly, FINALLY, a brand new toilet was installed.
And nearly as soon as it was installed, I found out I was pregnant. The toilet and I became intimate friends. "Morning sickness" does not do justice in describing what came over me morning, noon, and night for nine months. I did not feel nausea. I did not vomit. I did not upchuck. I PUKED. I SPEWED. And I PUKED AND SPEWED right up until the moment I left for the hospital to deliver that child. I spent many a night lying on the floor next to the toilet, because it was simply the best place to be. And because I spent so much time with my head in the toilet, I decided it may as well be clean. After all, there was no need to make the situation any worse than it had to be. In the brief moments sans nausea, I cleaned the toilet and kept it sparkling.
And today, as I knelt once again before my porcelain friend, I remembered how well it served me, even as my husband turned away from me in my hour of need, my loo was there for me. I abused it during two pregnancies, and it faithfully served. Three Monkey Boys and Kong treat this poor servant with disrespect. And now, as the boys leave for a time, I am cleaning, returning bleached dignity to our faithful friend and servant. I began my adventure in motherhood kneeling before this American Standard, and as I begin my short stint as a childless occupant of this house, I find myself still kneeling there.