I am kissing my younger brother on the cheek; I am about 7 and he is 4. These are the wiggly fingers under the bathroom door that tormented my poor privacy-starved mother.“I just wanted one second to myself on the toilet,” my mother says, laughing and remembering. “And then I’d see these little fingers wiggling underneath the door, tiny voices asking me if I was going Number One or Number Two.”Motherhood is indeed glamorous. Those were mine and my brother’s fingers that my mother recounted – fingers desperately needing her at all moments of the day, needing to know what she was doing when she wasn’t with us, needing to know why she was away from us for just one single second of the whole day. Just needing in general.I remember hearing my mother repeatedly tell this story of wanting to use the bathroom alone. She told it good-naturedly; she would roll her eyes and sigh and shake her head, smiling. She knew that this kind of neediness is a universal motherhood experience – the lack of privacy, the lack of autonomy over one’s own body.