Wishful Thinking

There is only one item on my Christmas Wish List this year. It's not expensive but it's essential to my mental and physical well being - all I want for Christmas this year is a private, uninterrupted moment in the bathroom.

When we had children, it never occurred to me that I would have to petition Santa Claus for a private moment. Our pediatrician never told us the truth about children - they're wired like moths. The moment I merely think about going into the bathroom, a light goes off in their heads and they swarm uncontrollably in my direction. Yesterday was no different.

At the time, I was almost in the clear when my five-year-old daughter, who has the strongest "bathroom-interrupting gene", busted me at the door. As usual, she wanted to come inside. "Listen," I said, "I need a moment here."

"Okay," she chirped, having already wormed her way into the room. "But I need to ask you a question first." In an effort to keep her from developing a traumatic bathroom psychosis later in life, I let her go ahead and ask. "Well, Daddy, I, um, I was, uh, wondering."

"Yes, what is it?," I answered as I started to hop from one foot to the other.

"Um, um, I have a question, um."

"Yes, we've covered that, what is your question?," I gingerly inquired, building up some steam with the hopping bit.

"You know those little bugs?"

"Which bugs?," I asked, grasping the doorknob in anticipation of applying maximum force to close the door immediately after answering yet another bug-related question.

"Well, the ones that have wingy things and ...."

Feeling a heightened sense of urgency, I began to chew a massive hole through my tongue. I hissed at her through clenched teeth, "Which wingy things? A lot of bugs have wings. Can we talk about them a little later?"

Of course, that ridiculous request only prompted a series of questions about the meaning of "later", and thus prolonged my agony. By then, I was hopping and chewing vigorously and mentally cursing all bugs in general and wingy bugs specifically. I squinched up my eyes to the rising pain and continued a little tersely, "What ... bugs ... talk ... about?"

"Umm, um, you know, um, um, they're always bouncing and flying circles around light bulbs," she stumbled along.

Just moments before I was about to lose consciousness, it occurred to me that my daughter was starting to look like a giant bug herself. To her credit, she recognized all the signs of an impending bathroom psychosis and she called her two sisters for help.

So instead of one child with a single question, I was confronted by three budding entomologists crowded into the bathroom with me, peppering me with inane questions about bugs with wings. In other words, I was caught in a swarm of privacy devouring humanoid moths.

All restraint and decorum evaporated when I realized that my need to use the bathroom had finally reached heretofore unknown historic levels, and I blurted out, "They're moths, they must be moths, now get out of this bathroom immediately, or you will all suffer the most severe and profound punishment known to man."

As I rushed to shut the door, Susanna refused to yield. "But Daddy, why do they they do that?" she yelled through the crack in the door. Unable to communicate, I just howled like a poor wounded animal, cornered and awaiting death. Fortunately, by the time I finished and exited the bathroom, they had moved on to devour their mother.

I wouldn't even think of putting this on my Wish List, but I go through this process every single day of my life and I'm desperate. And for the record, Santa, if I can't get a private moment, I'd be willing to settle for a giant can of bug spray.