And so it came to pass that I dropped a contact lens in the bathroom. Ick. Said contact lens was instantly too fluffy to use (pink fluff – it’s our towels) and had to be thrown away. Ew, I thought. I’d better wash the floor.
And so it also came to pass that I learned one of life’s truer lessons: if the water in the mop bucket smells vaguely of ponds, it’s too long since you last washed the bathroom floor.
And this led me to thinking: if this is the state of MY bathroom, then… *cue ‘Twilight Zone’ music* … what on EARTH was the boys’ bathroom like?
Now don’t get me wrong, The Prof is quite handy with a sponge and a bottle of Cif. He’s a tidy chap (possibly the tidiest in our house) and generally I avoid their bathroom unless I’m changing towels or replenishing toiletries (one of those self-preservation things you learn early on with parenting teenage boys) or the toothpaste build-up on the sink needs to be chipped off. Generally, I rush in occasionally, hurl a bit of bleach around, then run for my life.
This time, though, I crawled in. Literally.
Oh. Dear God.
Now I apologise if you’re eating or whatever, but here, dearest reader, is a life lesson for mothers everywhere: never, NEVER check your childrens’ bathrooms on all fours.
Armed, then, with fresh bucket of water (the pond water went on the tomatoes), bleach, mop, spray, sponges and cloths (my Twitter followers suggested scuba mask and snorkel, but they’re in the loft) and a seriously large helping of housewifely guilt, I scrubbed that sucker until it shone. Nobody tells you about the sheer amount of ick that teenage boys produce. And hair. God how I HATE hair. It makes me want to barf if one of my own sticks to my face, so swimming around in the discarded hair of my offspring was something I never want to repeat. I may never eat again (ha, don’t be silly).
Seriously: there should be some sort of users’ manual for these things. I need a chocolate brownie. Stat.