AITA for Refusing to Let Mom Poop Alone Like Some Sort of Bathroom Hermit?
By James, Age 3 (Personal Space Challenger, Full-Time Toilet Companion)

Hi. I’m James. Age three. I have deep thoughts, questionable timing, and a commitment to bathroom attendance unmatched in modern toddler history.

Mom says she needs “privacy.”
I say I need answers.

Yesterday, she did the thing. The thing where she tries to sneak off, all casual, like she’s not about to do serious business in the toilet throne room. I waited exactly 7 seconds before initiating my ritual:

• Slapping my palms on the bathroom door like an unpaid bouncer
• Whispering “Can I come?”
• Entering anyway

I stood there. Nose-to-nose. Like a little emotional manager. The air was tense. The toilet was mid-job.

I asked the important questions:

• “Are you pooping or just sitting?”
• “Do you need help?”
• “Is it gonna be loud or medium?”
• “What even is toilet paper?”

She looked at me like her soul was leaking.
I stared with admiration and concern.

Then I saw the roll. Fascinating. Long. Crunchy.
I took it. I shredded it.
I wrapped it around my head like ceremonial armor and whispered, “I am toilet boy.”

She asked for space. I offered commentary.
She asked for calm. I sang a song called “Mommy Pooped Again” and repeated the chorus until she cried quietly into her elbows.

At one point, I patted her knee. She flinched. It was tender.

When the time came to wipe, I offered a critique of her technique. She said, “PLEASE stop talking.” I offered silence for 0.3 seconds before asking if poop was a verb or a lifestyle.

So… AITA?

For:

• Refusing solitude in the name of intimacy?
• Holding space for potty-based togetherness?
• Being a mirror, a guide, and a nose-level observer of maternal digestive adventures?

Because I do not wish to be alone.
So Mom cannot be alone.
That’s love.

Messy. Noisy. Emotionally traumatic, sure.
But love.

She wiped. I clapped.
She washed. I narrated.
She emerged… broken but hugged.

So you tell me, Internet.
AITA for being her emotional service goblin during bathroom hours?

Or is she simply ungrateful for the sacred gift of nose-to-knee companionship?

Discuss.
Not too loud. She’s in there again.
I’m already outside the door.
Poised. Ready. Loved.
Wearing the toilet paper crown.