Among my oldest son’s countless foibles, the one that I must admit causes me the greatest deal of concern and consternation is his apparent inability to function in the bathroom at what I would consider a “normal” level.
I’m positive that, physiologically speaking, all systems are “go.” I don’t believe, that is, that there are any problems with actually performing his bodily functions. My alarm stems solely from the noises and inappropriate disruptions that seem to emanate from the room whenever my eleven-year-old child finds it necessary to visit.
These are not the natural and admittedly humorous sounds, mind you, to which one might think I am referring. I can, along with any male of varying maturity level who is secure enough to own up to his own childish whims, appreciate a good fart—and actively participate in public gaseous eruptions on occasion to the delight of my boys and stern disapproval of my beautiful wife.
My son, however, creates such an unsettling din while in the toilet as to annoy and otherwise cause great stress and worry for his mother and me as we imaginatively ponder what possible wet and bacterial calamity can be occurring overhead. Whether showering or voiding bowel and bladder, a symphony of crashing, stumbling, pounding, squeaking and scraping accompanies my son until, mercifully, the flushing of the toilet signifies an end to the venture, prompting one of we unlucky parents to undertake the odious task of investigating and cleaning up whatever manner of destruction and fecal/urinary/watery pollutants that are left behind.
One recent occasion, though, transcended the usual unpleasantness and delved into the downright disturbing. A human being who has lived longer than a decade should possess a basic ability to poop and pee without too much fanfare, and the fact that my boy doesn’t is distressing enough. The following account, however, still chills me to recall and has been the reason for a considerable amount of lost sleep.
My son was upstairs and presumably in the bathroom, though no announcement had been issued as is normally the boy’s protocol. The customary noises began, but seemed at length to continue well beyond the requisite time for even my son to finish the necessary activity and return to his usual play and sulking behavior. I waited. Soon my anxiety over the condition of our tiny little water closet got the best of me, and glancing nervously at my wife, I slowly climbed the stairs with all of the trepidation of a hapless, witless horror film victim. As I approached the tightly shut and secured door of the bathroom, I was halted by the panicked voice of my boy warning me not to come in!
“What’s the matter?” I spat back, fearing that some horrible tragedy had befallen the child. Had he slipped and injured himself? Had he managed to somehow lodge a limb in the toilet or even fallen headlong into the bowl? These options, considering my son’s history of bizarre behavior, did not seem at all unreasonable or unrealistic.
He responded with kind of irritated and drawn-out “Nothing!” that any parent knows automatically implies the contrary.
I grasped the doorknob, determined now to rescue both son and bathroom from their unimaginable fates.
“Dad!” he shouted excitedly. “Don’t come in here!” He was growing more and more frantic with each sound of my pending approach.
“Why not, buddy?” I uttered weakly, gripped by terror and overwhelming helplessness.
His response will echo in my mind for years to come. He replied to my concern and fright as naturally and as exasperated as if I had asked him his name.
“I’m naked.”
I had not heard the shower nor smelled any semblance of soap or shampoo. Furthermore, as I slowly sauntered downstairs, I heard the telltale flush of the toilet. I flinched. As I reemerged in the living room, my wife stared, dumbfounded, demanding with her eyes for me to relay what horrors I had witnessed, no matter how tragically painful. When she could no longer bare my stupefied silence, she enquired…
“Well?”
“He’s naked.” What else could I say?
“What’s he doing?” I could see, reflected in my wife’s eyes, my own unholy imaginings.
“I… I don’t know… he’s just…. he’s… naked.” My voice grew stronger then, as the grim realization of the super-unknown set in, “He’s naked.”
To his credit, our oldest eventually came bounding loudly and clumsily down the stairs, as is his custom, fully dressed. We have promised ourselves, owing to our son’s lack of ability or desire to illuminate the situation, never to speak of this again.
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