"Did you wash with vigor?"

Setting: Master bedroom. Evening. Lights on in all corners, TV on, but muted.

Clothing strewn acoss bed, dresser, hanging from closet door.
Suitcase open and empty except for pair of flip fops tossed in.
Julie sitting on lavendar chair, feet up on bed.
Heather standing in front of closet, hands on hips.
Jack running back and forth from bed to kitchen, wearing only his transformer underwear.

"Jack, that's it. Shower. Now. Hey, come back here!"

Running straight towards Julie, Jack stops short, jumps on the bed and assumes the "menacing Tae Kwon Do" ready stance.

"It's hard to be tough, little man, when you're only wearing Bumblebee underoos," Julie tell him.

"Nu uh," says Jack unphased, and with one quick motion, he remove the underpants, kicking them off with the same florish reserved for Chippendale dancers. Once again, he gets into position.

"Better. Much better," Julie observes, shaking her head.

I have reached my limit. The time on the clock says clearly, 7:48 pm. 18 minutes late already. "I said shower. Now. Come one, toothless naked wonder. Let's go!"

"I am a big boy Mommy. I need my privacy."

"It's all yours!" And off he runs into the bathroom. I can hear him talking to himself, grunting with the effort of being a big boy.

Waiting a few minutes for him to finish his business, I peek around the corner of the bathroom. There is Jack, hands on the floor, ass in the air in a downward-facing-dogish position, waiting for me to check if he's whiped himself clearn.

"You need privacy for the going and not the whiping? Doesn't add up, dude," I tell him, after giving him a pass. He stands up, grabbing a boat, a shark and two Egyptian princes, ready to act out his version of Jaws, King Tut style.

Turning on the water in the shower, I turn to Jack.

"I think you're getting big enough to wash yourself. The soap you like is right there," I tell him, pointing at the green bar on the lower corner. "I will put the shampoo on you, but I think you can do the rest. I'll check you over at the end. What do you think?"

"Okay Mommy. I'll try," Jack tells me, hopping over the ledge.

Shampoo'd and sufficiently wet, I leave Jack alone in the shower and go back to looking at the piles of clothes. Piles, incidentally, that will get pushed into the biggest single piece of luggage we own, weighing well over 50 pounds when it's full and brought to California for a long weekend. And exactly two pairs of shoes, three pairs of pants, two dresses and four tops will never see the light outside of the hotel room before being rejected.

Julie is still sitting where I left her. She gently reminds me that turtlenecks are not really California appropriate.

"I'd wear a turtleneck swimsuit if someone would make one, Jules."

Two pairs of pants and a kicky multi-colored blouse have been added to the suitcase when I hear the hearty yell of our son shout, "Mommy, I'm done."

Not moving, I yell back from the bedroom, "You're sure?"

"Yes, Mommy. I am sure," he yells back.

"You cleaned everything? Your toes too?"

"It's all clean, Mommy."

"Did you wash your bottom?"

"Yeeesss," he shouts, already with the snark born only to children with loud mothers from the northeast.

"Did you wash with vigor?" I inquire, placing a way cute pair of ballet flats in the suitcase.

Silence.

More silence.


"YOU WANT ME TO WASH MY BOTTOM WITH MY FINGER!?!?!!!"


Julie slides off the chair, laughter echoing through the house. I am sitting crossed legged on the bed, lest I piss my pants while in hysterics.

"ARRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!!" Followed mere moments later by a hearty declaration of "Stop laughing at me. Mommy!

"We're not laughing at you, Bud. I promise. Mommy promise."

"Than who are you laughing at."

Without missing a beat, Julie replies "Jack, we're laughing at your mother. Look, she peed her pants!"