I found a spoon in the toilet this morning.
We have a toilet lock.
It is one of those locks that suction-cups to the back of the toilet, and has a curved finger-like prong that rests on the lid, holding it closed. You lever it up and hinge it sideways to open the toilet, and when the lid is put down again, it snaps back into place. In my over-active imagination, it looks like a witches arthritic, curved finger pointing downwards, cackling mischieviously as she denies access to what my son now thinks is the coolest toy ever. He loves to push the handle and flush the toilet, thinks the sound is awesome, and giggles and does a little stomp dance in place with his feet to show his sheer joy of the activity. Then, he’ll usually turn and begin throwing shampoo bottles into the tub, or banging a hard edged toy on the lip. Did I mention we have a metal tub?
*TING-TING-TING* first thing in the morning is very pleasant, really.
Before the toilet lock went on, I rescued toys, shoes, socks, the occasional piece of paper, and a hairbrush from the bowl. For awhile, we left the door closed, thinking that this might deter him from always wanting to be in the bathroom. But, over time, we have forgotten to close it, the general business of life giving us cause to simply rush past the open door and not think twice. Being that bathroom breaks (especially for me) are five minutes of “gotta go!” before I have to rush to something else in the house, like my son trying to crawl up the chimney, topple a lamp in the bedroom, or tumble over and begin wailing, I forget a lot more than my husband.
For my husband, if twenty minutes goes by, his latest Star Wars book is missing, and I don’t hear a sound, I know where he is. Its rather frustrating (since I never get to read *sniff*), but I have coping mechanisms. When I need five minutes to put something away, or simply need a few moments of non-clingy babyness, I open the door, shoo my son in, close it again, and wait for the flush of the toilet not long after with a “Honey?” emanating plaintively from the room. And if the *TING-TING-TING* of a toy hitting the bath tub reaches my ear, I grin in satisfaction.
I am pure evil sometimes, this I know.
I’ll admit, I felt as if that witch was cackling at me too, when we first put the toilet lock on. I couldn’t figure the darned thing out either, and when you really, really have to pee, it can be the most frustrating thing in the world. I think my son now knows the “potty dance” as I have performed it on numerous occasions for him when trying to open the toilet. Sometimes I would just rip the annoying, smug, pointed finger off the suction cups and toss it on the counter with a frustrated growl.
Perhaps this is how he knows to thwart it now.
He has watched me enough, since I do have a child who follows me everywhere. It is a rare occasion that he is occupied with his father or a toy and I can sneak into the bathroom on my own (and then forget to close the door after). I don’t mind if he comes in with me, except for the happy, babbling mess-o-matic who will unravel the toilet roll, pull all the magazines out of the reading rack, and open up drawers that are not yet latched. (we can’t find a latch that will fit them, they are ancient). I have re-arranged all the things in our drawers to prevent him from gaining access to anything harmful, but he still manages to rearrange all my lotion bottles and girlie-stuff on a regular basis. The other day he walked towards me in the kitchen with one of my sanitary napkins – having snuck in without me seeing – waving it enthusiastically, saying “Bah! Ma-ma Oo-oogie bah!“. As I entered the bathroom to survery the damage, the toilet-lock-witch-finger, at that point, still firmly pointing her finger down and refusing access, there was a drawer, open all the way, and my “womanly” products spread from one end of the bathroom to the other.
I even found a perfectly placed tampon in one of my shoes afterwards, courtesy of my son’s toddler-destructo moment. I tried not to laugh too hard. I’m sure my husband wondered if I had finally sprung that last screw, and was officially off my rocker, standing in the bedroom with a tampon, giggling hysterically.
So now that the toilet-lock-witch-finger is no longer holding sway in my son’s world, or, more accurately, he can sway it off to one side, the suction cups not holding strong enough, I will have to come up with a new dastardly plan to keep him from the coolest toy ever. I can handle him reorganizing bathroom necessities, playing Drummer on the tub, or Librarian with the magazines…
…But be darned if I am going to fish more cutlery, toys, or (please God forbid) my errantly placed cell phone out of the toilet bowl.
That will turn me into the Toilet Lock Witch, and that might not be so pretty.