Why I Am Teaching My Young Sons That This ‘Private’ Bathroom Topic Is ‘No Big Deal’

Motherhood is indeed glamorous. Those were my and my brother’s fingers that my mother recounted ― fingers desperately needing her at all moments of the day, needing to know what she was doing when she wasn’t with us, needing to know why she was away from us for just one single second of the whole day. Just needing in general.

I remember hearing my mother repeatedly tell this story of wanting to use the bathroom alone. She told it good-naturedly; she would roll her eyes and sigh and shake her head, smiling. She knew that this kind of neediness is a universal motherhood experience ― the lack of privacy, the lack of autonomy over one’s own body.

And one day I woke up and suddenly found myself on the toilet with my newborn in my arms at 5 a.m., the house quiet. The door to the bathroom wasn’t closed, but I had this vision of my newborn’s someday-toddler fingers wiggling through the gap under the door, asking where I was. Asking if I was going Number One or Number Two.

I couldn’t imagine a future where I’d be able to use the bathroom without my child; after all, he had accompanied me during every toilet trip for the last nine months and then, once he was air-side, he came with me 90% of the time anyway.

I just kind of accepted it, that I couldn’t even use the toilet alone, and I relished the downy hairs on my newborn’s forehead as he lay cradled in my lap. There’s a certain suctioning nature of motherhood, toilet times included.

Two years later, I had two boys and they were both in the bathroom with me all the time. At this point in my parenting, I was begging for alone time in the bathroom, like my mother’s story of my wiggling fingers.

But as a mother, I was almost never afforded that bathroom privacy luxury, so I’d set up the baby bouncer next to the tub for the infant, and the toddler would wander in and out of the open door, talking to me and the baby as I sat on the toilet.

Somewhere along the line, I made the decision that if there was to be no fantasy about what happened in the bathroom because I wasn’t allowed any privacy, then I’d stick to it. No continuity errors. I’d adhere to toilet transparency because this is real life, kids. 

So when my preschooler asked, “What’s that red stuff in the toilet, mama?” I told him.

“That’s blood,” I said. “I’m OK, though.” (OK, I lied a little bit.) “It’s called a period. Lots of people get them once a month. It’s no big deal.”

“A period,” my 3-year-old boy said. “It’s no big deal.”

The open communication between me and my two boys continued. They asked me what maxi pads were for. They wanted to know how tampons worked and were utterly delighted when I showed them how they push out of their applicators. They ambled in and out of the bathroom, pulling trails of toilet paper, chatting nonchalantly with me. No privacy, but no fantasy.

“Oops, mama,” they said. “You got some period blood on your underwear.” 

“It’s no big deal,” I said and they nodded.