Last week, my new best friend, Colby, came by to pick up seven of the eleven doors in our house. "Why," you ask? No, he doesn't have a wood fetish, nor is he a voyeur (that we know of)... Colby is an "arteest" that was introduced through a mutual friend. We hired him in an attempt to bring our new house to old life by distressing some of the things that just weren't workin' for us (when I say "us" I really mean "me," because if it would've been up to the hub... we'd still have a plywood fireplace on the patio).
To be more specific, the "doors" in question were all of our bedroom and bathroom doors! "So, how long do you think you'll have the doors?" I asked with overwhelming fear of the surround sound (and smell) that would soon fill the air, "Three days, tops!" (That was on Monday). I guess it was around Wednesday that I noticed Isla having a couple accidents; most of which were happening at school. When I talked to her about it, she informed me that, "When the teacher(s) ask if I need to go potty, I tell them "no" because Maitland keeps sticking her head under the stall and peeking at me and I don't like it." The next day, I pulled the teachers aside and told them about our conversation. They told me that Maitland had done that at the beginning of the year, but not recently (that they know of) and we agreed that they would take Isla privately, if requested. At pickup on Friday, while sitting with one of the other moms outside, the familiar shrill of my name echoed thru the trees, "Mommy!! I'm having an accident!"
The next morning was Saturday and I was greeted at 5:15am by a tiny voice, "Mommy, I need to go potty." I took her into the kitchen bathroom (far away from Daddy), turned on the light and took my appropriate position on the couch... "I'm done!" <nothing> A few minutes later, she again announced, "I have to go potty!" We walked back into the kitchen to make a second attempt. <Nothing> The process continued unsuccessfully for another 4-1/2 hours and by 11:30, after trying every possible approach to complete our mission, we discussed the possibility of seeing a doctor. "Is it the doors?" I asked for the umpteenth time. "No, it hurts," she announces... "What?!" We talk a little longer so I can try to identify the root of her potty dilemma, and within an hour we are sitting in a room full of sick kids. About 17 minutes and $180 later (thanks to our cancelled insurance), behind a closed bathroom door, we quickly learn the truth. To make us feel a little better about blowing a wad of cash on nothing, the doctor said to stop giving her bubble baths in the future as it can cause irritation. I sent Colby a quick text to let him know we needed our doors back (at least one of them) that day.
I guess without a degree, there's really no way of knowing for sure whether our kids are truly in pain or just plain scared (even if we think we know), so it's probably a good idea to leave it up to the professionals, despite their significant overcharge for weekend visits. As overprotective, paranoid parents, we are firm believers that we'd rather pay to be right than save a buck and be wrong... but it's pretty f-ing annoying either way. The next morning, Isla woke up with a sore throat and a fever of 103°. Irony: it's a beautiful thing.