I have to crouch down to sit on my toilet at home.
“Way to brag about how tall you are,” you might be thinking.
I have two things to say to that. Firstly, way to assume I’m a vain prick. Secondly, I am pleased to inform you that you are sorely mistaken. I am, in fact, below the average height for women in America. I stand at a pathetic five feet and two inches, and to be honest I think I’m shrinking. The last time I went to my pediatrician, I measured at 5’1. You might be wondering why I am still going to a pediatrician at the age of 19, but if you were 5’2 and actively shrinking, I guarantee you would feel uncomfortable at a normal doctor’s office too. The five-foot-two preteens at Alamo Pediatrics are my people. We stare at the depressed fish swimming around their algae coated tank while we sit in our tiny neon chairs, twiddling our thumbs in anticipation of being measured. My five-foot peers look awkward squatting on their tiny neon chairs, but I’m used to it. Namely because of my aforementioned weirdly short toilet. I also have very bendy knees.
The toilet isn’t the only thing that’s strangely short in my bathroom. In fact, the entirety of my bathroom at home looks like it belongs in Bilbo Baggins’s hobbit-hole. Why? Because my bathroom was built for a five year old. My parents remodeled my bathroom to make it “toddler-safe” when I was born, and haven’t changed a thing since. Frankly I haven’t either. So not only do I regularly visit a pediatrician’s office, I also have little plastic guards on all of the tile corners of my three foot tall bathroom counter to keep me from getting a concussion if my fat uncontrollable toddler legs ever cause me to hobble head first into its ridge.
That’s something I find very interesting about babies and the culture surrounding babies. Everyone oohs and aahs when they see a newborn, but I say we call it how it is. Babies are weird looking. They have tiny beady eyes and bendy legs and skulls that can dent more easily than a car when I’m behind its wheel. They also do stupid things like run into corners that end up denting their extremely malleable heads. Because of the stupidity of infantile history, I now have to deal with a “toddler safe” bathroom at the age of 19. Consequently, any time I see a baby at my pediatrician’s office I make sure to scowl at it for a second or two. After all, it’s good for babies to see a range of human facial expressions. It makes them more empathetic as adults. If everyone is psychotically smiling at babies all the time, how are they supposed to learn how to express healthy emotions other than blind joy? My parents’ safety precautions may have prevented me from getting concussed, but I could have stood for a little scowling every once in a while. Why else do you think I’m a humor writer? Not enough people scowled at me as a baby.