The Burden Of Being The Designated Bathroom Parent

I’ve done a lot of impressive things in my life (like when I dilated my cervix to the size of a bagel — not once, but twice), but the event that takes the crown is the time I managed to fit my two daughters and myself into the world’s tiniest airplane bathroom. The girls weren’t quite old enough to navigate the terrifying, soul sucking, dementor-ish flush of an airplane toilet. And I wasn’t going to leave my 2-year-old awkwardly standing outside the folding door, 30,000 feet above ground in a plane traveling at 500 miles per hour.

Each of us took a turn on the toilet, which required all of my Twister and yoga skills to come into play. We were basically hugging each other as we took turns rotating spots. Toes were stepped on. Pants were pulled up at awkward angles, and with a full audience. It was only after we toppled out of the bathroom and clawed our way back to our seats that I realized my daughters were unlikely to be kidnapped on an airplane. When I finally slumped into my seat, I glanced across the aisle at my husband, who was peacefully watching a movie. And I wondered, “What must it be like to not be the designated bathroom parent?”

We don’t talk about DBP in our society. It’s a silent role; one for which no credit is given. It escalates the work burden of each and every outing if you are the DBP. You’ll push open countless bathroom stall doors only to be greeted by shit-filled toilets. Or toilets with a brown stain at the bottom that also makes them unusable, according to the 4-year-old. Plan on standing outside bathroom stalls, wondering what on this planet could be taking this long. Or waiting inside them, awkwardly stationed next to the menstrual garbage. You can pray the stall will have a hook to hang your bag, but the odds will rarely be in your favor. Of course, your child will be holding their five favorite stuffed animals, which they will insist on taking into the bathroom with them. This means you will also be holding said stuffies, while helping with wiping and fielding the 500 million questions that arise from your little human.

Being the DBP has forced me to encounter many horrors: Watching as my 4-year-old licked an airport bathroom floor while I was mid-stream (silver lining? She didn’t die). Navigating the awkward moment when my daughter clogged the toilet at a friend's house and they didn’t have a plunger. Not a single one. Not wanting to embarrass my daughter, I took credit for the dump and sat awkwardly while the husband went to buy a plunger. The time my daughter locked herself into a stall and couldn’t figure out how to unlock the door. I considered smashing my face into the dirty grout to squeeze in. Thankfully, I had the brilliant idea to take a video from a different stall and pass my phone under so she could watch it.

When I think about being DBP, I feel a significant amount of rage. I think about the days before kids, when I could go to the bathroom solo. And that, perhaps, is what I miss the most. I miss being able to take a dump without having two other humans crammed into the stall with me, staring deeply into my eyes. I miss washing my hands without having to help one child reach the soap, and the other troubleshoot the loud-ass hand dryer that selectively decides who it will turn on for. I miss being able to sit on the toilet for 10 extra seconds in silence, just because.

I read an article where a woman wrote about how once she stopped ruminating on her body, she was able to use all that time to write a book. She wrote a book! Which makes me think about how, if I were not the DBP, I would probably also have time to write a book. How much time have I spent in the bathroom with my children, anyway?

These are the important questions I ask ChatGPT. It began by clarifying, “There isn’t a precise scholarly study that quantifies exactly how much time the average mom spends in the bathroom with her child until age 10…” No shit, Sherlock. But ChatGPT showed me its math, which seemed pretty legit. And it concluded that by the time our child turns 10 (if we’re the DBP), we will spend around 2,100 hours in the bathroom with our child, which translates to “~87 full 24-hour days, or around three months of life.” THREE MONTHS? My husband, an actuary, will poke holes in these numbers. But as DBP, I can attest they are, if anything, a lowball. And since I have two girls… six months of my life has been spent in a bathroom not alone.

Do you know what I could have done in six months? A lot.

Parenthood is often touted as one of the greatest things you can do with your life. And I agree: It is pretty dang spectacular. But there’s a side to parenting we don’t talk about (just kidding, I complain about it all the time). Specifically, the bathroom-stall-banging-open monotony. And these are the moments where I begin asking, “What is the meaning of this?”

When I’m lying on my deathbed, will I say, “Ah, if only I could take my child to the bathroom one last time”? Maybe. But more likely — and, sure, I do think about this a lot, why do you ask? — my child will be sitting next to me, and I’ll shout, “Bring the bedpan!” And then I’ll sit on the bedpan awkwardly, staring my child dead in her eyes. I’ll ask her some random ass questions while she attempts to wipe my butt. And after she has me all situated, cleaned up, and the bedpan put away, I’ll tell her I need to use the bedpan again. I’ll continue this for six months, and then die.

Karma’s a real bitch.

Laura Onstot started writing to maintain her sanity when she left her career as a research nurse to be a stay-at-home mom. Unfortunately, she realized writing only revealed her insanity. She is not humble at all, and finds her own writing very funny. She forces her friends to read every article she writes, because praise is her drug of choice. You can find more of her writing at lauraonstot.com