If your parents are insane, you may not realize it. The yardstick for measuring sanity is skewed. When I was a kid, OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder) had not been diagnosed yet. People like Mother were just called "perfectionists."
Mom's house was, and is, perfect. All the time. Not just clean -- perfect. More like cover of Better Homes and Gardens. Always! If taking someone to visit Mother for the first time, they stop believing me at "wall-to-wall carpet... in the garage." Upon arrival, jaws drop as they see powder blue carpet, plastic runners for the tires, and a white throw rug (yes, white!) for under the engine that had dare not leak a drop.
Children must have been some biological urge. I cannot think of another reason. "Out of my house!" was the mantra. You might think I would be employed in helping keep this place up. Not! If I were to do laundry, or dishes, whatever, it would not be up to her standards, and therefore need redoing. What she wanted was me gone.
Mom's bathroom was no different. Beautiful carpet, thick fluffy towels, decorative soaps, spotless gleaming fixtures. The toilet itself was festooned with a lid, seat, and tank cover. All homemade, and on a revolving holiday theme. Even the toilet paper was embossed, color-coordinated, perfumed, and with a cute triangular fold on the end.
Pooping at Mom's was not fun. First off, she would be standing outside the door, while on the inside I would worry about getting a drop or smear anywhere it should not be. Afterwards, I would get a "family towel" from under the sink, and a "family soap" from a drawer, wash my hands, dry the fixture, the sink, toss the towel in the dirty clothes basket, and leave. At this point Mom would burst in checking and/or cleaning everything.
Occasionally, we would have guests. Knowing that standing outside the door and the rest would appear, well, nuts, she would assume the mantle of normal. Chatty, friendly, an absolutely outstanding cook, wonderful hostess. Then they would leave. "Those beasts!" would have washed with her decorative soaps (now relegated to family soap), wiped hands on her Turkish towels (as opposed to our threadbare ones), and, in general, made a mess. No sleep for Mother tonight.
As a teen, I moved out into the shop. With the addition of a toaster oven and refrigerator, I could go weeks without needing to invade her sanctuary. Peeing on trees and pooping in coffee cans, sleeping under the stars whenever possible. A good life.
Then it happened! Sixteen! I had a license. I had repaired and sold several cars. I had money! My stunning, high-horsepower ‘55 Chevy was waiting in the driveway. I had wheels! I went inside to tell mother of my escape plans. Her reaction was concern and worry. What if I did something stupid, and she got sued? And lost the house? The next day, at the courthouse, as we signed the emancipated minor papers, we were both happy.
