I’ve just finished going to the bathroom. Okay, you got me, I was pooping. Let’s get real, we all do it.
I go to wipe, and I’m greeted with an empty role of toilet paper on the holder attached to the bathroom wall. Just an empty tube of cardboard stares back at me. Not even a remnant of tissue is left. Because apparently my family believes we have a toilet paper fairy and why should they have to do her job?
Could Someone Please Tell My Family The Toilet Paper Fairy Doesn’t Exist?
I look at the sink to see if, by chance, someone has been so kind as to at least leave a roll on the counter, pretending to make an effort to try and not leave just an empty toilet paper roll for the next person. It’s not like they didn’t realize they used the last of it …I mean … they even picked the dregs of tissue from the desolate tube of emptiness that stares back from the wall.
Of course not.
I sit on the toilet thinking. Ugh. It’s at least seven steps to the closet where the toilet paper is kept. Of course, I know the door is jammed, so it’s going to be an ordeal jiggling the door to get it open. Can I do this with my pants down around my ankles?
I wiggle a bit to make sure I’m “dry” enough to make the trip to the supply closet. I take a deep breath and stand up. I take two steps toward the door, holding my pants up with one hand while reaching for the door with the other.
I’m not exactly sure what happens now. Somehow my pants slip out of my hand, immediately falling to the floor and catching my left foot. My right foot hasn’t yet gotten the memo that we’ve stopped, and tries to keep going in a forward motion.
Next thing I know, I’m bare butt up, facedown on the bathroom rug. My pants are simultaneously around my left ankle, and somehow the right side is halfway up my right leg. There is a good chance I heard a rip in the fabric on my way down to the pink fluffy rug on which, thank God, my face landed.
It is NOW my five-year-old decides to open the bathroom door (Why didn’t I lock it?!). He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even bother to ask if I’m okay.
“Mommy, can we have popcorn with supper?”
Really, little man? Do you see anything here that might look off, like Mommy might need help?
He stands there waiting for an answer.
I can’t. I can’t even make my mouth form a coherent sentence that doesn’t involve profanity delivered at decibels not meant for indoor use. I just lay there, as my bare butt smiles at the ceiling, and my son waits for an answer about popcorn.
After, what seems like a lifetime, but is probably no more than three seconds, I say calmly, “Shut the door.”
“But I want popc …”
“Shut the door,” I say more forcefully.
He shrugs, shutting the door behind him as he exits the scene of, what I am now referring to as, the incident.
I work my way back up to the toilet. Yep, my favorite pants are definitely ripped. My knees are going to be bruised, and I think I may have sprained my wrist.
I look over at the wall. There sits the now infamous empty tube.
CRAP! I forgot the toilet paper!!
At this point, any attempt at decency has walked out the door with my son. I kick off my pants, walk to the closet, and give one frustrated jerk. It opens right up. I retrieve the stupid, yet necessary role, and stomp back to the toilet.
All this trouble, so I can just finish my business, and get on with my day.
I swear, this family must think fairies change things like empty toilet paper roles in this house.
“Never again,” I declare to no one in particular out into an empty room. I roll my eyes. I know, full well as the words exit my mouth, there will be an empty roll awaiting me on my next visit to the bathroom.