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The Happy Hausfrau

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The Happy Hausfrau 1

It dawned on me in the young child toilet-training aisle at Target, of all accepted places. I was searching for a baby shower gift and was wandering through the baby section with a somewhat-annoyed 14-year-old boy walking a safe distance behind me. He was mumbling something about “when can we go” and “you guaranteed you wouldn’t do that” and “you owe me Taco Bell now” (oh how I love when they tell me what I owe them.

It was there in the ocean of grinning cartoon characters and ohmygod so much Chevron. Just a little portion of those cushioned mini toilet chairs you stay over the regular one. I took one down from the screen hook and kept it for another (the only real time, it’s alright to do so without plastic gloves and a surgical mask). The teen then was beside me, the mumbling momentarily ceased.

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I asked him. “We’d a seat just like this for all of you to use when you were little.” the seat was regarded by him, and a small smile inchworm across his face. We sat there for a second, and if anyone got glanced over they might have seen an unusual sight: middle aged-mother and high, gangly teen son, smiling at a toilet seat. An area was experienced by That seat, front, and center, in the toilet of our home for a good seven years.

Four small bushes do their business onto it countless times. God only knows how enough time I spent cleaning it. And I was here, well over a decade later, wracking my brain to remember. The teenager offered up a few suggestions: “Maybe it was Disney personas” he offered. I replied, because I remembered one thing for certain and that was I abhorred Disney character types on my kid’s things.

Don’t even get me began on the cloyingly pastel baby variations of Mickey, Goofy, et al. As we made our way to the infant-wear section, we forth batted ideas back and. Dear Lord. No. William recommended that maybe there weren’t personas on it in any way. Just colorful shapes Maybe? Nah. There were forms, not individual, but numbers with heads and eye and I believe, limbs.

Why was this bugging me so much? Gnawing within my brain, pinching my mind. I announced, position there in the middle of racks adorned with smooth-footed sleepers and eensy weensy clothes. Molly is 19 and is a freshman in college. She possesses a keen recollection of days gone by, and, millions more brain cells than me.