©2000 Bonnie Wren
All Rights Reserved

Norman Bates Doesn't Live Here Anymore,
So Get Your Own Towels

Bam! Bam! BAM!

Jeez. Can't a woman take a shower in peace?

Not if she's a mother.

"This better be important!" I hollered. "I'm talking blood! Or fire!"

The door pounding stopped and I resumed my shower.

As usual, I can never shower by myself. If it isn't a knock at the door, it's one of those noisy split-personality debates Hubby says I should never tell anybody about.

This particular debate was between The Mother and The Woman.

"What if," asked The Mother, "the pounding stopped because a psychopathic killer entered the house and the child had to run for it?"

The razor skidded to a halt on my knee as I considered this.

"Ha!" snickered The Woman. "More likely the kid remembered you keep the milk in the refrigerator. Or maybe his brother threatened to feed oatmeal to the dog."

"Oh, I don't know," mused The Mother. "Remember reading about that deranged drug-user who broke into a house with a shovel? Thank goodness the parents were home, heard their kids' cries for help and saved them before he--"

"Come on!" groaned The Woman. "How many times do we have to stop showering, using the toilet or whatever, just so we can answer a pint-sized door pounder who wants to know 'which is worse, eating a live scorpion or being attacked by killer bees?'"

The Mother chuckled. "Wasn't that cute! They're so imaginative, so young, so... defenseless... If there is a psychopath in the house brandishing a large garden tool, they'll be --"

"They'll be toast!" blasted The Woman. "Does Peter and the Wolf ring a bell? I refuse to answer that door! They've cried wolf too many times."

"How cruel you are," sniffed The Mother. "All you care about is shaving these legs which, by the way, have proven time and time again that they reforest themselves within 24 hours. But the grief and suffering of a bloody aftermath? That lasts FOREVER."

When The Woman didn't respond, The Mother pressed on.

"Interrupt our shower and what have we lost? A minute! But what's a minute to two small boys, clinging to each other in fear, holding up their little arms in one last, brave effort to deflect the blows of a maniac wielding a pick axe?"

The three of us stumbled over each other in a crazed attempt to get out of the shower and throw on a towel.

"I'm coming, boys!" I cried, unlocking the door and rushing into the empty living room.

"Now that's just great!" swore The Woman. "Just clue Mr. Maniac into the fact that you're here!"

"No gore on the walls or the carpet," whispered The Mother. "That's a good sign."

I grabbed my son's chess trophy off the piano and crept up the stairs, my eye on the closed bedroom door.

It was too quiet. Throwing all caution downstairs, I burst through their door.

The boys looked up at me from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

"Yeah, Mom?"

The Mother sighed in relief. The Woman slapped her forehead in disgust.

"Who," I asked through gritted teeth, "pounded on my door?"

They looked confused. Then the oldest brightened.

"Oh! That was me, Mom. I needed some underwear but then I realized you were taking a shower so I looked in my drawer and found some."

"Hey, Mom!" said my youngest, poking at my shin with his index finger. "You got shaving cream all over your legs!"

As I embarked upon one of my loudest lectures (entitled, "Why We Save Pounding on a Locked Bathroom Door for Emergencies, Unless We Want to Hear a Lot of French") The Mother began another internal debate.

"What if--"

"Oh, shut up!" snapped The Woman.

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