I was giving the kids a bath the other night when a splashing contest ensued, and amid all the laughing and shrieking and water spraying, Wyatt slipped under water mid-splash, mouth open. As I dove to retrieve him, I slammed my knee into the side of the tub. I pulled him up and out of the tub by his arm. He gasped for air, then cried and looked at me as if he wasn’t sure whether I was his steadfast savior or the root of his calamitous suffering. I woke up the next morning to find a an angry bruise blossoming on my kneecap and thought of eggplants. Actually, I spent more time than I care to admit considering the spectrum of nightshade vegetables and which one my kneecap most resembled.
Rewind a few weeks prior to the above incident: Same bathtub. Same kids. I noticed Wyatt being very still and quiet in the corner of the tub. I asked if he was doing what I thought he was doing, but he shook his head no in that sweet and innocent way of a two year old. And then he waved at me and said, “Hi, mama,” which should have tipped me off because that’s Wyatt’s dead giveaway that he’s doing something he knows he shouldn’t be doing. Not one minute later, guess what floated into view?
Moral of the story: I’m not bathing Wyatt anymore. The kid’s on his own.
Totally unrelated but worth mentioning: Mia is watching TV in the next room, and this is what I hear:
Zach: “Is that Rainbow Dash and Twilight Sparkle?”
Zach: “Yessss.” (Imagine a fist pump.) “I know them.”
Happy Friday, friends.