My profession, unfortunately, comes with the tendency to develop some quirks, ticks, and bad habits. It is the danger of spending one’s days with small people with limited vocabularies and lack of social inhibitions. I found myself at the grocery store yesterday in the bathroom, big stall of course, with BQ and Molé in her plastic ride on car, attempting to use the facilities. BQ had to go, of course mid shopping trip, so the three of us headed in. After she finished, she of course asked me if I needed to do the same. I said yes, because I genuinely felt the urge, and began. She then asked me if I needed privacy and it happened. Rather than give her a simple answer, I launched into a little monologue. Let’s face it, she was tuned out after the first 10 seconds, but I continued. I talked about how we all had to be together for safety and how I actually do often long for those days of old when going to the bathroom was a private experience. I heard other toilets flush. Hands were washed in the sink just outside my little stall door. And yet, I continued. Who knows what the rest of the ramblings entailed. The verbal diarrhea of a stay at home mom in need of adult conversation.
So, there it is. My true confession. I talk to myself.