Daddy’s Potty Time


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I grew up in a three-bedroom house with one bathroom and four occupants. If you do the math, you can see that this will inevitably  cause conflict. It didn’t help that my father was known to take 45-minute shits, especially on Sunday mornings.

For years it drove me and my sister crazy. Who takes a shit for 45 minutes? I could hardly sit still for thirty minutes. As we grew older and our morning routines grew in length and involvement, the conflict became more and more heated.

But now that I have children, I get it. A small house with only one bathroom provides little room to hide. Solitude is a valuable thing when you work 50 to 60 hours a week running a business. All week the man was constantly bombarded by someone wanting something. On Sunday mornings, he just wanted some quiet time. Down time. Recharge with the Life and Arts section of the Times.

But then again, when I was about twelve I found a stack of six Penthouse magazines under a banged up white towel in the linen closet and my time in the bathroom increased dramatically as well. The apple never falls too far.

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