I am not a Bathroom Blogger. I don’t discuss that “end” of my private life. But toilets in Japan are the happening thing in our family. The boys recount vividly their episodes. Our American boys are used to ho-hum, dull white porcelain. They have never seen Western toilets with Mighty Super Powers.

First an education on our toilets, and then….I will bring you into my inner circle. I will divulge the story how I was doused by a bidet.

Toilets in Tokyo are either traditional Japanese, or Western. I am not a fan of the traditional Japanese. I squatted over one ONCE. Lest you wonder, I only emptied my bladder. That was enough. I am not a boy. I have not grown up practicing my aim. I left the stall dry, but it was hard work.

Many have asked to see pictures of our apartment. Here is a piece of our bathrooms. Every bathroom has a mounted large “control.” Those are blue butt cheeks on the second and third buttons. Below shows how water shoots.

The buttons frightened me when I saw them. I have never pushed them. When I think “spray,” I think fire hose and hip boots, not a gentle wash. When I think “massage” I think serene dark room where my deep tissue is palpitated, not my rear end saying, “aaaahhhhh.” When I think “power deodorizer” I think industrial strength air freshener, not sweet aromas.

My boys have no fear of the controls. They have tested every button. They have been “exposed” to new levels of hygiene. I was content to take their word for it.

And then, I was baptized by the bidet. IN PUBLIC.

You don’t get it? See the purple button on the control panel.

I was, Praise the Lord, wearing a dress. We are on the tail end (Don’t you love my double entendres?) of summer. For the first time in many summers I am not pregnant or nursing. Unexpectedly, I look swell in dresses. Everything is where it should be.

I volunteered (insert, bird brained idea) to take Son3 into the bathroom in a fancy pants hotel. We had just dropped by for an early family dinner.

Son3 is TWO years old. Bless his little agile fingers.

Those that know me In Real Life, know I genuinely have problems sharing toilets.

I don’t share well.

I don’t use other people’s toilets without squatting. Some friends clean their toilets just for me, and let me be the first to use them. Public toilets are not my thing. Imagine me wearing a dress, ready for #1 business, NOT sitting.

Imagine a control mounted alongside the commode.

Did I mention The Bird Brained Idea to invite Son3? I thought so.

It was a bad movie. I said, “no touch.”

Make that,

“NO TOUCH!!!”

But his teeny fingers grasped the “MAX WATER” dial.

Yes, they did.

His fingers punched another button, and I heard a whirl. Why did I look down into the bowl rather than take cover?

A tube shot out like a cannon. Water blasted out and pelted my pretty polka dot dress. I screamed like a teenage girl at a Justin Bieber concert. Son3 screamed like he had seen a teenage ghost at a Justin Bieber concert. Meanwhile, the water cannon sloshed, flooding the fancy pants stall.

I got myself together, tiptoed to the paper towels, and snatched them in stacks. I tried to be inconspicuous. It was not easy with Son3 howling “WET, MOMMY, WET!!!”

The paper towels soaked the water. I went for Round Two of clean up. Somewhere around Round Four the bathroom door swung open with me bent over in my polka dots. I apologized to the lady. I told her Son3 had too much fun with the bidet. She shot me the Stranger Dagger Look every mother dreads, and disappeared into a stall.

I scrubbed my hands and Son3′s hands silly before we left.

If I feared the toilets in my apartment before, I am petrified of their Mighty Super Powers now. I do not need more bidet adventures. I will leave those to my boys.