Flyin’ fruit.

I don’t usually do bath, so many of its minutiae are mysteries to me.

I used to be bath lady. Then I did the math on my daily childcare hours and decided that 15 hours a day is enough. So Spouse does bath most nights. All I know is it involves shrieking, cajoling, and statements like, “It’s okay not to like shampoo, but we don’t bite.”

So tonight’s bath was my deal-io and I attended with much amusement. There were classics that I remember well: “The bubbles are all going away. Make more.” And “Mommy, why does mold mean yucky?” And my all time favorite (only not) “Ow, ow I hurt my penis. Kiss it.” Um, no. How about well wishes instead.

What I didn’t expect was the newest addition to the bath: flying fruit.
P: Mommy. Close your eyes then wait for something special.
M: No. That sounds like dangerous.
P: Yes. It’s not. It’s flying fruit.
M: Excuse me?
P: Yeah. Flying fruit. Close your eyes.
M: No way. Flying fruit is a Daddy game. I don’t want it.
P: Yes you do. Try it.
M: Um, Okay.
P: Close your eyes and then flying fruit. [I don’t close my eyes. I can count the reasons on two hands, the first of which is I expect to be hit with flying fruit. Given the title and all. He scoots back. And two seconds later a plastic lemon and plastic orange fly across the tub to the opposite wall, thunk there, heavily full of water, and sink to the bottom. I laugh.]
P: Do you like flying fruit?
M: I have to say I do. Try it again.
P: Okay, here we go!

I really should do bath more often.

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4 thoughts on “Flyin’ fruit.

  1. So I will leave my comment here…

    My RSS reader recorded a now missing post that made me laugh a great deal. You may not be “nice,” but you certainly are funny and insightful. I’ll trade fun for nice any day. And I’ll leave comments on pages dealing with flying fruit instead of crashing lamps.

    First punches and kicks are emerging from Andrea’s belly, delivered by (I can hope) a future saucy (I know) little girl.

    Casey

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