Parenting | Humor
Dude, It’s a Towel, Not a SpaceCraft Manual
Just hang it up before my coffee goes cold!
My knuckles hurt from knocking on the door.
“How much longer? I need the bathroom.” — I yell to my son in frustration. My vocal cords struggling to compete with the gang music blasting from the shower.
On full volume. And on speaker.
“Keep your hair on” — he says calmly as he opens the door. Ninety-five minutes later.
But, at least the music has temporarily died.
I shrug it off. The bathroom has free access now. Hurray!
But my happiness is short-lived.
Steam, like a punch hits me in the face. And I startle while adapting to the new climate.
As I force my eyes to see through the dense cloud of mist, I see something scrunched up on the floor. I know what it is, even if I’m blinded by the hot vapour in the air.
A friggin’ pile of wet towels.
I grab my son’s arm as he tries to sneak past me. Oh no, no, no signore!
He knows the drill, just pretends not to.
“Wait, what’s that?” — I point at the incriminating mess.
With a groan, he turns around, gathers the heap then chucks it on the top bar of the heated towel rack.
It instantly falls on the floor.
He sighs and looks at me, pleading. As if to say: “At least I tried.”
But he already knows what’s coming. No escaping faith.
He bends down to collect the bunch of towels. Puts it on the rack. Again. And this time he pushes the top for good measure.
“Stay” — he says. As if instructing the stack would do the trick. As soon as he turns to leave, the towels tumble down like an avalanche.
It’s a pointless game, but he doesn’t seem to care. I should’ve brought my coffee up.
I lean against the door frame, no chance of leaving soon. Surely, I could make a better use of my time.
As I stand there, the phone buzzes. It’s not a good time I’m teaching right now.
He loses focus and abruptly chucks the pile on the top of the rail. For the fifteenth time.
“That’s mine” — I point at the blue towel, curious why it’s in the stack.
He halts for a second.
Does he conjure up a memory?
“I know. I used that to dry my feet” — he says, in a raised pitch.
Is he asking or stating a fact? That towel belongs in the washing, I decide.
The phone vibrates and I realize it’s mine. Then pings as a message comes through.
I’m kinda busy, but I glance at it anyway.
A picture from mum. “I made cherry pie”, — it says under the photo. “And, it’s yum.”
It does look yummy, and I start to salivate. I now want cherry pie with my coffee.
Which is on the kitchen table downstairs. And stone cold by now.
I’m losing my patience, and my bladder is bursting. While my son is training the towels to balance on the rack. “Stupid towels” — he mumbles without changing his approach.
It’s painful to watch.
I’m at the end of my tether, whatever a tether is and I take the mess from his hands to show him how it’s done.
I hang them up. One by one.
And they stay, without being instructed.
“Voila” — I say proudly, indicating that it’s doable. Then I throw them on the floor, encouraging him to try it himself. Tough love.
He wants to leave, I want cherry pie.
We’re both fed up.
Finally, he picks one up and “carefully” tosses it on the rail.
I pray to God. I want this to be over.
And I fucking need a wee.
I will the piece of fabric to stay in place. I wish my son could feel the sweet taste of success.
But no luck.
We watch it in horror as the thing loses its grip and slowly starts its painful descent. Will it ever stop? Please, please stop.
It’s on the floor again, on top of my blue one that he used on his feet.
We both sigh in despair.
“Dude, it’s a towel. Not a spacecraft manual.” — I blurt out in frustration. “Surely you can do this.”
But he’s not convinced.
My phone pings again, another message from mum. “ Look at the chicken I found at the farmer’s market” — she says. And demonstrates it with a photo of a carcass in a pan.
Great. My mum has cherry pie and a big fat chicken to cook while I haven’t had my morning coffee and am dying for a wee.
My son must sense my growing anguish and quietly hangs the damn things on the holder.
One by one. Slowly, taking great care.
While I do a little dance.
Not to celebrate his diligence, but to fight the almost inevitable. I can’t believe that getting to the loo is such a fuss.
But it is worth the wait.
Miracle. The towels are in place. Drying on the rack.
I feel victorious, my heart is filled with joy.
While he exits the bathroom at the speed of light in case his handiwork decides to turn for the worse.
But I don’t mind, the toilet is finally mine.
I’m just happy to be relieved. On so many levels.
Then I go to the sink to wash my hands when I hear a thud. I freeze because I recognize that noise.
It’s the kind a towel makes when it falls off the rack.
You’ve got to be kidding me!
Sodding, stupid, towels.
I’m off to have my coffee and some imaginary cherry pie.
Thank you for reading!
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