As for bathrooms, I would like to say that I am for them: Lots of bathrooms. This is due to being 7 - 9 months pregnant three times, where-in my sons practiced trampoline moves on my bladder and I had to make mental maps of every available bathroom around my favorite haunts.
These mental maps proved useful in ensuing years when messy diapers were dripping down my left hip, or that period when the little darlings had finally learned to say, “pee, pee,” which gave me 15 seconds flat to find the nearest toilet.
No, I never told them to go right ahead and pee here on the floor, even when met with a fat faced clerk who insisted there were no public restrooms; although I knew perfectly well that the clerk didn’t sit all day talking on the phone, without nipping into the back where there was a perfectly good toilet with nobody sitting on it (in pale green pants).
I do remember reading about a mom who told her little one to use the floor when some skinny faced clerk insisted there was no public restroom. The mom got into all kinds of trouble; I saluted her silently from afar.
As far as sex in bathrooms, I’m against it. Too cold and uncomfortable and frankly dirty, especially the men’s, which I know about (full disclosure here) from occassionally rolling my eyes at the twenty three women waiting in line, and ducking into the empty men’s side, which usually stank. I will digress and point out that certain people have been blessed with an implement with which to AIM, complete with ample opportunities to practice. There is no excuse for such abundant evidence of regularly missing the mark.
The other problem with sex, whether in bathrooms or otherwise, is that it can lead to the aforementioned trampoline artists. Now, while all sorts have developed many ways to avoid that danger, I will say that my current favorite is the sexy sixties, which is what you get at the end of over 40 years of sharing the joys and sorrows, and exhaustion, of the mystery and wonder of two becoming one flesh — not just once but three times, each one unique, but still holding goofball family resemblances like the ability to quote Simpsons at the drop of the hat.
And while still rejoicing in the one-flesh miracle, I can now enjoy a quiet house, not to even mention spacious bed without little feet pummeling my kidneys or throwing miniature legs over my back, or being the baloney in a kid sandwich. Rather I can revel in wide, peaceful comfort, intimacy augmented by a long history, Baileys in icy glasses, candles on the window sills . . . except for in times of Visitation when grandchildren litter the bedroom floor, each with their unique family resemblance, that to date doesn't include quoting the Simpsons.
While I can’t imagine anyone being against lots of bathrooms, I remember my first toddler, who when being corrected for peeing in public, said with affronted righteous indignation, “but I went where the peoples don’t walk.”
I am totally in favor of going where the peoples don’t walk, unless you live on top of a dump where, I recently read, the technique is to go on a piece of paper and then bury it deeper in the dump. I am also reminded of countries where a hole is cut in the child’s pants in lieu of diapers. Presumably those babies also learn to go where the peoples don’t walk. After all, my dog learned that, and most toddlers are almost as smart as my dog.
In sum, I vote Yes on bathrooms, No on sex in bathrooms; and in emergencies, I am in favor of going where the peoples don’t walk.