My Kingdom for a Toilet Lock

I'm not saying that I would kill for one exactly, but at this point I think I've comfortably worked my way up to "mame," "disfigure," and possibly "torture."

What I want is an old school toilet lock. The kind that somehow (I would tell you exactly how but--oh, that's right!--I can't FIND one) hooks under the rim and clamps down on top of the lid. The only kind we have been able to find in stores is a version that simulaneously attaches to both the tank and lid using suction cups. Suction cups. This seems like a great idea until you remember that--hey, how 'bout that?--the real reason one is supposed to use a toilet lock in a home with young children is to keep said children from drowning in toilet water. And they want me to keep my toddler from drowning using a highly developed system whereby suction cups act as the chief prevention mechanism? Riiight. Ron bought us one: It was successful for nearly 24 hours before Lucas figured out that if he wiggled his little finger around and hooked a nail under the edge of the top suction cup that he could easily pry the thing off. Brilliant. So obviously that whole idea went down the crapper, so to speak.

Not that I am afraid of Lucas drowning in the toilet. That's not my motivation here. But I would love--LOVE, mind you--to be able to get ready in the morning without either a) applying makeup at the vanity while holding down the toilet lid with my foot or 2) engaging in a version or versions of the following conversation:

"Lucas, close the lid please. No. No! Close it. Close it please. Thank you. Good boy!"

[Obligatory clapping. Lucas begins to peel small pieces of toilet paper from the side of the roll, as we have locked it down with a special device designed to prevent him from unrolling it entirely. He sneaks these one at a time under the lid and into the water.]

"Lucas no... wait...oh, okay. That's okay. Yes, toilet paper goes in the toilet. Yep, good job buddy."

[I hear splashing and glance down to see that Lucas has reached his right arm into the bowl and is gleefully swirling the water.]

"Oh! Lucas! No. NO! That's yucky. YUCKY," I emphasize as I pull his arm away and close the lid. I grab him around the waist and hoist him up just enough so that I can rinse his hand off in the sink. Then I dry Lucas with my free hand while he whines and I explain that Mommy's sorry but we don't put our hands in the yucky water. I put him down and hand him a squeaky purple bath toy. It might be a frog.

[Suddenly Lucas reaches all 8 of his arms in different directions, simultaneously grabbing my hairbrush, comb, etc. and attempts to slip everything into the toilet.]

"No, Lucas. NO! Hey! [I grab as many of the aforementioned items as I can and toss them into the empty bathtub and out of harm's way. I would put them in the vanity but it is safely child-proofed, meaning that it would take an adult approximately 5 minutes to break in, and right now I don't have that kind of time.] We don't put those things in the toilet. Those are Mommy's. Not for Lucas. For MOMMY."

And a version of this continues until I either give up the task at hand or assume the lumberjack position (leg up on the john). Shutting Lucas out of the bathroom altogether is only a viable option if I don't mind listening to, "Uh! Uh! Uh!" outside the door the whole time or, the other option, outright crying and the muffled thud of a sixteen-month-old throwing himself against the door. I am so jealous of my husband for being able to take a 15 minute shower 5 mintues before bed, well after our toddler has called it a night. No wet hair or second-day hair issues to contend with. No hair drying or styling. No makeup to apply. And he's currently sporting a beard, so no shaving to deal with. No facial regimen to keep up. No moisturizing to complete. Not to mention that if he needs it, he has the ball cap option. He would probably argue that this is a gender-neutral opportunity, but come on. In that case I might just as well raise the white flag & roll over.

So the quest for the lock continues. In the meantime, I am a lumberjack (and, for the time being at least, I'm okay). No really, I mean it.