The following is not intending for the weak of stomach or the easily grossed out:

Last night, it happened.  I was initiated into womanhood.  No longer will I have to resort to blog entries about shoes to prove my gender orientation.

I participated in the ‘herd mentality bathroom initiation’ that most women join as early as elementary school.  Yes.  I am now one of ‘them’.  The many, the proud, the bathroom support groups!!  We asked around the table, rose as one, entered as one, went as one, exited as one, washed as one.  It was sheer poetry in motion.

I even tried to primp in front of the mirror.  Next time I’ll have to wear my hair down or do makeup or something.  Ponytails are so hard to primp. 

Next time we’re out people, I got your back when you go to the ‘necessary’.

My daughter already needs a support group. Who else will she describe her poop shapes to after she’s done with potty training?  Currently she resorts to running out of the bathroom yelling: ‘I made a goldfish in the toilet! I made a goldfish!’.  Returns to the bathroom and runs out again ‘I made a snake!  Look!  I made a snake!!’ 

In a few years I can go ‘EWW!! That’s disgusting!!" (or ‘repulsive’ if she’s already learned disgusting and I’m trying to enrich her vocabulary), "Why would I want to look at your poop??" BUT because the whole potty-training thing is my idea, I feel the pressure to be polite. "Very nice, dear!", I say.  "That’s great, honey!", I tell her.

Hopefully she won’t remember this artistic talent as an adult.  I’m sure modern artists would jump on the idea and museums will never smell the same again.

At least her bathroom support group will never be bored.

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