Friday afternoon we had one of the wonderful impromptu playdates that makes me love where we live. All the kids – 13 total – were outside riding bikes and scooters and pulling each other in wagons and doing the kinds of thing kids do when you just let them run around. While the kids played, three other moms and I hung out in the shade on the driveway, chitchatting and complaining about how our kids and/or husbands were driving us insane.
One of the moms asked if she could use my bathroom, and I told her to use the front one because I had cleaned in there that morning.
She came out giggling and said, “I’m only telling you this because you said the bathroom was clean.” Then she went on to detail the mess – there was an open bottle of shampoo dribbling its contents down the back of the toilet, the last child to use the toilet hadn’t flushed, there was a toothbrush in the training potty, and all the towels were on the floor in a heap.
I died of embarrassment.
Fortunately, these moms are some of my best friends and know that I do generally keep a neat house and that I’m doing my best fighting against four short slobs.
But I’m still never letting anyone use my bathrooms again.