Lola maintains her modesty. Barely.

This post is going to be gross.  I’m just warning you now.

I honestly can’t believe I’m about to share this story, but I’ve been under fire by a friend of mine to please share this with the world.  The reason this story is coming out now is because I just potty trained my toddler, and therefore the words “peepee” and “poopoo” have become regularly used, totally normal words in my household.

This is a big change from before I had a baby.  I have always been a very private person regarding all things that happen in the bathroom.  Even at a young age I would flush the toilet in a public bathroom so no one could hear me pee.  Once I got a job at a small company where there was only one restroom in the entire office and it was shared by both men and women.  I don’t think I went to the restroom in any form for my first three months of employment for fear that the two coworkers who each shared a wall with the restroom would hear the sound of a tinkle.  I think I just offered to buy coffee for my boss each time I had to go so that I would have an excuse to drive to Starbucks and relieve myself there.  On camping trips as a preteen I’d walk through the dark woods with barely a flashlight, knowing I’d probably get lost and get eaten by a bear on the way back to the tent, but hey, that’s better than someone walking up behind and seeing my bare buns in the squatting position.

So it really worked out that when I met Oatmeal, in fact he turned out to be exactly the same way.  He is also very secretive and conservative when it comes to these, er, personal affairs.  I credit his upbringing as he was raised in a 3 bedroom house with just 1 bathroom and is one of four children.  So yes, 6 people all shared one restroom for his entire 18 years of living at home, I guess in that circumstance you learn to get in and out.  He very politely excuses himself each time he needs to “use the restroom” and makes a point to be discrete.  We went to Europe on our honeymoon. Evidently Europeans believe in bathrooms the size of a refrigerator and hotels the size of most American laundry rooms.  In each hotel room our bed was approximately 3 feet away from the toilet, which in our relationship meant that we never used it.  I’m pretty sure Oatmeal was sneaking down into the lobby in the mornings to use the main restroom; as for me, I’d wait until he left to check his email or got absorbed in a book and sprint across the road to a cafe to do my business.

I’ll never forget the first time we were on a date with some friends of mine and the husband made a joke about passing gas and trapping his wife under the sheets in order to torture her.  I felt my cheeks burn and turned to see Oatmeal nearly pass out.  All he could do was shake his head, put his face in his hands and laugh so hard he almost teared up.  I think he managed to sputter something like, “Man, that’s just wrong…”

Clearly that was just never going to be a problem in my marriage!

So after we’d been married for about 7 months I became pregnant.  One night I began to feel extremely queasy.  I laid in bed for what felt like hours trying to fall asleep.  Up until this point in my marriage I’m pretty sure neither of us had any idea when the other one used the restroom and we both had a silent pact to keep it this way.   Even throughout the first early days of my pregnancy when I would feel like I would throw up I would try to do this when he wasn’t around or turn the TV up loud enough so that he couldn’t hear me dry heaving.

Gotta stay ladylike, right?  Well it all nearly ended there.

So that night I finally fell asleep, but it didn’t last.  I awoke feeling as if my stomach would rip apart and I had to leap from the bed in order to sprint to the bathroom.  Not even the guest bathroom, nope – there was no time – I was lucky to make it to the bathroom located in our master bedroom.  It was like someone had drugged me with every laxative on the market at twice the recommended dose.  I turned on the bathroom sink and flushed the toilet constantly and prayed to God that Oatmeal would sleep through everything that was happening a mere 8 feet from his head.


I could not believe how awful and queasy I felt, but really the most painful idea was the thought of losing the perfect image that my husband surely held of me in his head as a polite, dainty little wife who only went into the bathroom to brush my teeth or powder my nose.

What felt like 30 minutes later I finally felt as if I could probably safely go back to bed.  I stood up and gave the toilet one last flush.  I heard something that didn’t sound quite right and turned around to see that – oh wonderful – the toilet was clogged.  All of that flushing I’d been doing had caused some sort of problem and it wasn’t pretty.  I did what any ignorant, dehydrated, hormonally pregnant female would do. I pushed the level down and flushed it again.

Huge mistake.  HUGE.   Immediately the toilet backed up and the water began to rise.  I cursed everything in my life as I watched the water get closer and closer to the top of the toilet.  Soon it was splattering all over the floor as I hopped around on my tiptoes.


It was 2am in the morning and I wasn’t thinking clearly at all, which may explain why I thought that the most appropriate thing to do would be to jump into the shower and turn on the water as fast as possible in order to drown out the sound of the toilet water spilling over the seat and splattering across the floor.


So there I was, in my pajamas, standing in a steaming shower and staring through the glass at an overflowing toilet.  It wasn’t too long before I realized if I didn’t figure something out – fast – the murky water would cover the entire bathroom floor and leak out into the bedroom where my cover would be blown forever.

I opened the shower door and took two long steps toward the commode.  I lifted the back of the toilet lid and grabbed at anything and everything that could possibly stop the flooding.  Only then did I realize that I should have just reached behind the toilet and turned off the water.  As I reached down to do so, I was hit again… by the unmistakeable thought that I was going to be sick, very sick.

I sprinted out the door and into the guest bathroom.  I dry heaved for a good ten minutes and finally pulled myself together when I remembered I’d never actually turned the water off all the way.  I also realized at that point that I was wearing socks.  Yes, socks, which were completely soaked from the flood.



I ripped the socks off and tiptoed past my sleeping husband back into the master bathroom.  It was that of a horror scene.  The bathroom had completely flooded.  The rug was soaked.  Toilet paper was all over the floor and seat of the toilet.  The shower water was still running on full blast making the tiny room gray with steam.  It smelled like rotting death.  I locked myself into this room of horror as I heard Oatmeal roll over in his sleep.  Because he is such a light sleeper I literally stood on my tiptoes for what felt like an hour until I felt like he’d probably drifted back off.   I realized that if I opened the door to the bedroom once more he would surely wake up and my cover would be blown.  I decided I’d rather fake my own death than have that happen, so I did what anyone in my situation would do.

I opened the tiny bathroom window and pushed out the screen.  (Please take a moment to scroll back up to the picture and note how small that window is.)  I threw the disgusting, soaked bathroom mat out of the window.  I hoisted myself up and out of the window and climbed onto the back porch.   I walked back into the house through the back door, where I tiptoed through the house gathering a bottles of bleach, 409 and as many bath towels as I could find.  I walked back to the porch, climbed back through the bathroom window and began mopping up the mess as fast as I could.  Once everything was finally somewhat sanitary again, I figured it was safe to try to flush the toilet again and hopefully everything would clear.



Luckily it was only minimal time before I turned the water back off, but let’s just say that I ended up climbing through the window a few more times to find more towels and more cleaning supplies.   Ten minutes later every towel in the house was soaked and in a pile on our back porch.  I carried them to the washing machine, where I happened to see something that made my heart skip.

A plunger.

Yep, a plunger was tucked into the space between the washer and dryer.  Thirty seconds later I’d run back out of the door, climbed back in the window and was attempting to plunge a toilet for the first time in my entire life.  And I was trying to do it quietly so that my beloved husband would not wake up.

I plunged.  And plunged.  And plunged.

I looked up plunging on youtube to make sure I was doing it correctly.  Seemed I was doing okay.

I plunged some more.

Mind you, I was trying to plunge q-u-i-e-t-l-y.  Ever tried that?  It’s tough.


I finally had to admit defeat.  I closed the lid to the toilet.  I took a big plastic basket of my hair products and placed it on the toilet as a do-not-disturb sign.  I got into the shower, which was running pure ice water by that time, and finally cleaned up.  By the time I was finished I heard the washing machine buzzer, so I opened the bathroom door for the first time in an hour so that I could switch all of our towels into the dryer.

I climbed into bed and tried to sleep, but all I could think of was how my marriage would surely end when Oatmeal awakened and went into the bathroom.  I’d have to admit that I do poop after all.  That our marriage was a sham.  He’d have to plunge the toilet for me. He’d never look at me the same.  I could hardly bare the thought, people!

I don’t think I slept at all.  When his alarm went off I leapt out of bed ahead of him.  I jumped ahead of him into our bathroom, slammed the door in his face and told him through the door that he should just use the guest bathroom.

And I remained there until he had left for work.

Blessed with the ability to plunge as loud as I wanted to, I grabbed the plunger and went to town.

A few forceful (and LOUD) plunges later and the toilet was good as new.

SWEET BABY JESUS THANK YOU.  I had saved myself.  My modesty.  My marriage.

You’ll be happy to know I maintained my modesty throughout the rest of my pregnancy.  The next night (and most nights until my second trimester when all of the sickness subsided) I slept on the couch so that I had easy access to the guest bathroom.

I was even concerned about my dignity during labor and childbirth.  Toward the end of labor I’d get the unmistakeable “urge to push” (aka the feeling you need to poo) and I’d lock myself in the labor and delivery bathroom to fight through the last contractions in private.  I’d clutch my legs and straddle the toilet in undescribable pain while Oatmeal and the nurse stood outside the door, and pleaded with me to please not accidentally have our firstborn in the toilet.  Only when I felt certain that was really time to have a baby did I emerge from the bathroom, climb onto the bed, and gave birth to our daughter.

Sweet relief, the attention was off of me.  Things went back to normal (or close enough).  I no longer had weird pregnancy digestion issues.  But you know babies, they tend to make even the most modest couple loosen up a bit.  My husband and I are both unafraid of diaper changing and went into potty training with full force.  Soon all of the terminology was rubbing off on us.  Instead of saying, “Excuse me I’ll be right back” to pee in secret we were saying, “Hey honey I gotta go potty” or “Daddy needs to tee-tee.”  We now giggle like third graders when our toddler sits on the toilet saying “poopoo!  poopoo!” in her proudest voice.

What can I say, I suppose kids can change a marriage, but I’d still do it all over again if I had to.

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  1. Hahaha I forgot about this!! Remember when one of DaBurg roomies had one too many at NG and made the pink bathroom smell AWFUL??

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