It never ceases to amaze me how much grime I can tolerate on my body and hair before stepping out in public. More often than not, I find myself wearing the same clothes I slept in, perhaps with a hint of yesterday’s chaos still clinging to me.
I wasn’t always this neglectful of self-care; I once relished daily showers and fresh outfits. The moment my priorities shifted drastically was undoubtedly when I became a parent. Motherhood has a way of redefining cleanliness.
Things have improved a tad now that my kids are 4 and 6, but my showering routine has become incredibly basic: hop in, wash the essentials, and scrub the grease from my hair.
Shaving? Above the knee? That’s a big no.
Grooming the lady parts? Not happening either.
I’ve instituted a new rule in our home: I’m reclaiming my shower time for at least one day a week. From now on, during my “Saturday Shower,” the tiny humans and their father are strictly prohibited from entering my sacred space unless there’s a blood emergency.
Every Saturday, I kick off this ritual with a clear warning to the kids and their dad: “Family,” I announce, “I’m taking a shower. No one is to enter the bathroom. Better yet, stay on this floor of the house, okay?” They nod, and I shoot a fierce look at my husband, which clearly communicates, “Keep them out until I return, or you’ll be in trouble.”
With that, I’m off! I practically skip up the stairs, bubbling with excitement for my Saturday Shower. With my favorite Billy Joel playlist blaring from Pandora, I revel in singing along to “Piano Man.”
“A bottle of white…”
“A bottle of red…”
Yes, Billy, maybe a bottle of rosé would be perfect!
I crank the water temperature to near-scalding—because let’s be honest, it takes a lot to wash away that Mom-grime. I glance at the array of shower products that have sadly gathered dust during the week. Pink scrubs, fragrant shower gels, and fluffy loofahs all beckon. “Hello, friends, it’s good to see you again,” I smile at them.
This is my Saturday Shower, and I intend to use every single product. Yes, I will even indulge in the wash, rinse, and repeat routine for my hair. Over my shoulder, I wave at the lotions and makeup waiting for me post-shower, promising myself a bit of pampering in peace.
When I finally emerge, I want to be greeted by music, perhaps something nostalgic like “Pretty Woman” or the classic tune from the end of Sixteen Candles.
But just as I settle into my bliss, my peace is shattered when one of my kids barges in.
“Hey, Mommy!”
“What are you doing here, buddy? Where’s your dad?”
“I dunno.”
“Mommy is showering, so…can I have some privacy?”
“I’m just gonna go potty.”
“Well, we have three other bathrooms in the house. Go use one of those. Where’s your dad?”
“Nope, I’ll just use this one.”
Before I can usher him out, he’s dropped his pants. When he doesn’t lift the seat, I realize what kind of “business” he’s about to conduct. I try to ignore him, continuing my singing, but the pleasant aroma of my body scrub is quickly replaced by the unmistakable scent of my child.
I wrinkle my nose at the offensive smell and let out a yelp when he flushes the toilet, leaving me in a cloud of stench. I can hardly believe it when he snatches my phone off the counter, turns off my music, and walks out, absorbed in a game.
Feeling lightheaded from the odor, deprived of music, my Saturday Shower is ruined. My kids have a knack for ruining many things: my Saturday Shower, my flat stomach, and even the ability to run up the stairs without a mishap. While most of these grievances are unfixable, I can at least lock the door next Saturday and start the dishwasher and washing machine as soon as my husband hops in the shower on Monday morning.
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In summary, my Saturday Shower serves as a much-needed escape from the chaos of motherhood, a brief sanctuary where I can momentarily reclaim my sense of self. Yet, as always, the unpredictability of parenting often bursts that bubble, reminding me that solitude is a luxury I can only occasionally afford.