Bathroom Humor

Later that afternoon, I acknowledge McDuff's e-mail and accept his invitation (actually, he'd insisted) to meet with him to discuss the situation and how it had been handled. I further ask for confirmation that the 8th grade principal, the head principal, and the counselor for the grade (who handles all the crises) would be in attendance.

I hit the send key and look forward to the weekend with Pat and Hil. And in the meantime continue to gather intel from other parents. My boss had some great ideas. He'd been bullied a bit in school. And he'd been a teacher in his past. His wife still is. He encouraged me to keep up the pressure on the school, to copy up, including the Superintendent and the School Board in emails that do not secure satisfying replies. He also suggested that I enroll Pat in Karate.

Pat in Karate?

Yes, he said. Find a school that is not so interested in art and form as they are in teaching fighting. Pat will learn to drop a kid with one hit, and walk away without a lot of fur flying. And he'll get T-shirts from the school. The message will be out. "Don't take a chance poking fun at Pat Royal. He takes Karate." And Pat will gain confidence. Develop a swagger. A swagger he deserves to have.

All good stuff. I have a mission for the weekend.

I stop in a colleague's office on my way to brush my teeth and Invisalign plates, my routine now for months. Invisalign is miraculous but it is quite a commitment to brush every time you remove the plates to eat or drink anything. You would think the inconvenience would curtail the snacking. It does not. So I am constantly brushing. The colleague I stop to see is one of the other mothers who's joined the ranks of my anti-bullying campaign, and I want to tell her about the latest update. She laughs at the idea of me meeting with the school. They have no idea what they are in store for.

As I speak and gesticulate with my hands, she asks what I am holding. I stop and show her: Toothbrush, toothpaste and the little hinged plastic carrying case that the plates live in while I eat. I tell her that I am on my way to brush and am hoping to avoid the lady in the adjoining suite who is always very nervous and uncomfortable with my brushing in the ladies room. (And where, I might ask, would she prefer that I brush?) She always looks unnerved and scurries out without washing her hands, making a statement that trails off at the end about washing in the kitchen.

My colleague laughs and tells me that for a moment she thought what I was carrying looked like the little case she'd gotten from her gynecologist when she'd gotten a diaphragm.

Mother of God.

I bet that's it. The little nerveen in the next office probably thinks I am carrying my diaphragm. It all makes sense now. Everyday, right about lunch time, I go into the ladies room to freshen up for my nooner. Brush my teeth, place my diaphragm. Off to meet whomever. And she wants no parts of the seedy little routine I have. Oh. My. God.

And now I feel compelled to explain to her. Corner her in front of the full length funhouse mirror and go on and on about my Invisalign and show her the little case with the little models of my teeth in them, (not a bouncy little birth control gizmo) and complain overly emphatically about what a chore it is to brush my teeth all the friggin' time, even at work, in the public toily. I can just imagine the scene. Her closing her eyes tightly and putting up her little hands defensively as I open the case, and then plugging her ears so as to not hear my undoubtedly untoward explanation. Clutching her Miraculous Medal and praying like a martyr at various points in the conversation.

But I won't. What would be the point? She's a little gray haired chubbins with nothing better to do than make assumptions about people and whisper about them in polite company. Let her think I am enjoying the torrid affair of the century or a love life to be envied. In many ways, I am.