My Crying Room

 It's a risk I'm willing to take. 


Being followed to the bathroom, everytime, is just understood in motherhood. But, sneaking away to that special place in order to sob and throw tantrums in peace, that's tough. 



But, it's the only place where my mind thinks to retreat to when mothering demands reach their peek. 


Sure, I guess I could lock myself in my closet, but, then I wouldn't have access to a window,  or even a mirror for those times when that non-waterproof mascara that I'm allergic to starts to slowly gouge my eyeballs out from the overflowing tears. 



I could run out to a favorite tree or rock on this semi-vast property and just leave them all to duke it out indoors. But they'd look out that big bay window in the living room, eventually, and all come out to wonder what I'm doing. 


So, I default to the bathroom.


I default to the bathroom to have secret snacky time. I go there to practice deep breathing, and I go there to cry. I just sit on the toilet and cry. 


Or I look out the window and play twenty questions with Jesus...oh, and I cry.


Why do they always follow me? And why do I consider it my "safe zone"? 


Heck, I don't even like my bathroom. That picture I shared is of my sister's perfect  Texas-sized master bathroom. {Mine is currently not for your viewing pleasure. It has toddler nail-polish painted linoleum from 1983. From my toddler. It survived 34 years of being perfectly good representation of 1983 home design until one of my greatest creations used it as her canvas.} 


Like a chapel on a hill, I go there to pray, question life, recite verses, and yes, cry. A lot of crying. 


And there's always those monthly times where the crying makes zero sense and yet, 100% sense all at once. And it doesn't matter how many times your husband inquires as to why, I'll never know how to answer. It's just time to cry, that's all. And cry, I shall. 


So, today, if you need me, I'll probably be in the bathroom. Not actually for the purpose of using the toilet. But, for crying. 


Anyone else? 


Love, Alicia