Bath time. Never been my particular favorite time of the day. I’m usually exhausted by that point and gladly turn that duty over to my husband if and when he’s home. He likes to hang out with the kids one on one since he’s gone from them all day, and I usually utilize that time to breathe and take my first uninterrupted pee of the day. However, when I have no choice but to be in charge of project kid clean, I want everybody in and outta there and have no time for dilly dallying. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and in that light, my ass is plopped on the couch, feet propped, wine in hand. Even with as little patience that I tend to have at this point in the day, however, I do at least get to spend individual time talking to my kids. I may have to pry it out of them, but slowly but surely they often come around when the bath is a flowin’. I kinda like to be there every once in a while to witness it. And believe me, I’ve learned all kinds of doozies at bath time about what goes on inside the mind of a six year old.
More often than not the conversation turns to talk of private parts. They are by far the hottest topic in this household, children and husband alike. These talks usually start out with some type of exhibitionist display of talent. Sometimes we all end up laughing hysterically and other times, someone ends up crying and being sent to time out. For example, my daughter might be dancing buck naked in the tub one minute, trying her damnedest to get everyone to look at her and then completely wigging out the next when she thinks about the fact that her brother is, in fact, looking at her. My son, on the other hand, is quite comfortable in his birthday suit and isn’t afraid to strut his stuff at all. His hands are generally on his Johnson anyway, so what would he care? This night time nude cavorting has led to numerous deep discussions about the differences between boys and girls.
One of the latest of these conversations took place the other night as I was drying my daughter off while my son was getting in the tub. They were trying to determine just what what made them alike and what made them different. My daughter concluded that they both have the same boobs and butts, but she got the hoo-hoo, and my son got the peeper. Gotta love a woman who cuts right to the point. On another occasion this week, as my daughter was soaking in the tub, she boldly announced that she prefers to call her nipples “dimples” since she can’t say the word “nipple” without erupting into a fit of giggles. And now, thanks to this little talk, I’ll never look at my Rob Lowe’s chin the same.
It’s not always about body parts, though. Sometimes we end up talking about their day at school. Like last night, my kids informed me that they are learning about Michael Jackson in music class. I know, it made me do a double take at first, too. But when I was washing my daughter’s hair last night, she suddenly started humming a tune that sounded very much like “Rockin’ Robin.” When I asked her about it, she told me that they’d been working on a choreographed version of the song. Apparently, the music teacher has taught them hand motions to go along with the song, and her favorite part is when they get to break dance. I’m thinking, what the?! Now some parents may flip out about this, but I, on the other hand, happen to think it’s kinda cool, especially if it actually is true. (I’m learning that I can only believe about 75% of what my six year olds tell me anyway.) It was solidified even more for me when my son proceeded to show me his best breakin’ moves all whilst still in the tub, completely soaking me and sending waves of water all throughout the bathroom. I have a little feeling that the music teacher didn’t intend for this body rockin’ practice to necessarily take place in the bathtub.
So, while bending over a tub after a long-ass day of poop scooping, car pooling, and playing referee isn’t necessarily my cup of tea, I do enjoy the front row seat to my kids’ imaginations. Their little brains retain some of the craziest information and tend to wait to let it run wild after the sun goes down. It’s often way better than the crappy t.v. shows for which we pay our cable company an arm and a leg to watch. All I need is some popcorn and some Raisinets, and I’ve got myself a ticket to the cheap show.