When Rich and I bought our first house eighteen years ago, I was pregnant with Harrison. We narrowed down our choices of neighborhood, taking into consideration the schools (weren’t we thoughtful DINCs), the proximity to the places we frequented and what we could (not really) afford. We settled on a perfectly fine house with four bedrooms (the “fourth” being just big enough for a crib, a changing table, a small armoire and one person), a kitchen that, upon first blush only, was nice enough and a front to back master bedroom. Both sets of our parents pointed out to us that there was no family room (no biggie – we didn’t have a family yet) and no master bath (again, we said, no biggie…this was going to be our starter house and by the time this as yet unborn baby was old enough to share it, we would be long gone.) Needless to say, we never moved. We did add-on a kick-ass family room, but we cheaped out on the master bath and have been mourning it ever since.
I often lament having to share my bathroom with three guys. I have been known to comment on there being at least one penis too many in my house. Events that we are attending as a family (and each need to be clean for) are always a challenge, requiring someone (usually me) to get into the shower hours before we need to leave in an effort to ensure that I get a shower at all. It started to become problematic when Harrison outgrew the” questionable hygiene” stage of middle school and began embracing long hot showers and, worse still, started shaving. And then came Jessie.
Now I have to share my bathroom with three anatomical guys and a girl. Seriously, that ain’t right. My delicious coconut fragranced shampoo and conditioner are now being depleted at a ridiculous pace. I searched high and low for my favorite face-washing headband for weeks only to discover that Jessie had absconded with it and taken it as her own. And what happened to the pale pink eye shadow in the third slot of the Maybelline trio? Jessie has even gone so far as to “play” with my good make-up and has requested her own mascara! “You are ten!” I keep telling her. Okay, yelling at her.
Truth be told, she is more skilled at applying makeup than I was at ten and certainly when I was in high school. (I was a victim of the 80’s. Thick black eyeliner, all around the eye which would smudge down to my cheekbone by 9 a.m. was not uncommon. At the time, I thought I had it going on, but…). When she has “done” her eyes, she happens to look beautiful, but it is so totally disconcerting and inappropriate that it forces me to become a lunatic and start threatening to hide anything that could be used to enhance one’s appearance. The problem with that, however, is that I have nowhere to hide anything and, if I do manage to secure a good spot I then promptly forget where it is.
I can handle the new morning dressing routine. I can even handle her using my (ridiculously expensive) flat-iron, but I straight up don’t want to share my make-up with anyone. Ever. Perhaps if I had been afforded ten years of preparation I would feel differently and even embrace this stage, but I wasn’t and I don’t. Further, there are a few crappy earrings and necklaces that I might be willing to share, but certainly not the diamond studs that Rich gave me when Harrison was born. And not the gigantic hoops that are bigger than her head. I know, too, that it won’t be long before her feet are the same size as mine and she is my height. Oh, my. Sharing my bathroom has been bad enough…I don’t want to share anymore.
This is among the many things that mess with my head surrounding Jessie’s transition. I was the lone female in my house for so long that certain things never necessitated stated rules. I didn’t have to lay down the law about my stuff since no one was interested in it. (George (n.c.i.) was far more interested in dresses, wigs and mermaid tails – none of which were available in my closet). So now, not only do I have to continue to share my bathroom, but suddenly everything is up for grabs. I think we might need to move.