Bathrooms, that's a dirty word at boy house. Today in a fit of pre-decorating cleaning I ventured into the boy bathroom, gasp! What was I thinking? Amnesia? Temporary insanity brought on by a wicked combination of leftover turkey and pecan pie.
Not to worry I closed my eyes, held my breath stuffed my fingers in my ears and sang a hymn. I muscled my way past the moldering towels , the month ago football gear, the muddy shoes and pants probably Turkey Bowl relics.
I've had years of experience overcoming the post traumatic stress of a fool hardy peek into boy bathroom. The flashbacks, voices, desolation, carnage, and guilt are hard to withstand. Harder to handle still are the wild desires brought on by such a scene; I crave the smell of bleach, I tremble as I think of ammonia scented with lemon, my hands aches to attack armed only with rubber gloves, chemicals and Brillo pads.
No, I'm a women of morals and principals I will be strong. They know how to clean a bathroom I taught them well. I won't clean it for them, I won't, I wo... might, but I'll hold back a stocking stuffer I will.