The searing, hot water is pouring down over my head, face, and shoulders, creating the bubble I’ve come to depend upon, to prevents me from hearing anything, beyond the shower curtain. I suck in air through my mouth, and blow it out slowly. Right now, in this moment, no one can get to me. By no one, I mean, mostly, the three little people who suck the life out of me every, single day.
As I take my sweet-ass time lathering up in my steamy, fiberglass shell of protection, I can’t help but fixate on one, awful thought: “Please God. Don’t make me get out of the shower.”
Because I know what awaits me beyond the bath mat. Needs. Wants. Whining.
My toddler hanging on me, demanding a snack. My 6-year-old complaining that her sister hit, kicked, bit, scratched or otherwise hurt her, or entered her personal space. My 8-year-old asking if I can help her with her homework, or if she can have a friend over, or if bats see in black and white or color.
But in the shower, I’m safe from this oligarchy of my own making. Alone. Unbothered, other than by the fact that my husband always, always uses the last squirt of shampoo, then leaves an empty bottle for me throw out.
In the shower, behind the locked bathroom door, and with the just-a-touch-too-hot water, the way I like it, raining down on me, I can think. Or not. Whatever I want. Not what they want.
Just. For. A. Second.
I mean, the truth is, it’s longer than a second. The amount of time I actually spend in the shower might suggest I shave my legs more than once or twice a week, which I don’t. One might think I wash my hair every day, too. I don’t.
The reality is, I’m hiding in my own personal St. Ives-scented break room. It’s the only place I can get a respite from the madness; they find me everywhere else! I go down to the basement, they follow me. I pop outside to check the mail, they follow me.
I say, “I’m taking a shower,” and for some reason, they actually find something else to do other than track me like overtired, Goldfish-munching, always-bickering bloodhounds.
It doesn’t last, of course. Just as I start to take a load off, and lean against the tile wall, savoring these 9 precious minutes of need-free “me time,” and praying in earnest, “Please God. Don’t make me get out of the shower. Don’t make me face my life,” someone’s banging on the door.
“She won’t share!”
“I’m hungry!”
“I need to poop!”
Okay, time’s up.
Until tomorrow, shower. When you and I have a date with another 9 (if I’m lucky) uninterrupted, unfrazzled moments, where no one can push me to my limits, or make me question how I can get through the rest of the day, or ask me for anything, or implore me to find something, or fix something, or reassure them that everything will be okay.
Sometimes, it’s not okay. And in the shower, behind the curtain, and as the blistering needles of water hit my rapidly-reddening skin, I can feel that. It’s okay. I can cry. I can put my head in my hands, and feel anger, frustration, pain, desperation, sadness, whatever I want.
“Be out in a minute!” I call to the pitchfork-toting mini-townspeople about to burn down the bathroom door. One more deep breath. And with reluctance, I turn off the shower, wrap a towel around my flushed, pulsing skin, and unlock the door.
I smile. It’s show time.
Where is your safe place?
Share herePhotos: Melissa Willets and iStock
Stereotypes about SAHMs that are totally ridiculous!
Try to give ourselves brain damage and permanent hearing loss.
Will steam to come out of our ears, while wearing sponges as accessories. So chic!
Wear an apron!?!
Fold baby clothes with an expression on our face like we just found out we won $1 million!
Make muffins while talking on a phone from 1997???
Think we’re hot stuff while dusting? "Please, no autographs until I'm done with the mantle."
Set dinner on fire and not let go of the pan.
Hug laundry and gaze out the window forlornly. Please, we do that while sipping wine, at noon, and eating bonbons. With our feet up.
Count doing dishes as a workout.
Wear a chef’s hat. And seriously, what's up with the apron??
Vacuum in heels. ENOUGH WITH THE APRONS!!!
Mix up doing dishes with being in a photo shoot for Vogue.
