"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!"

How long has this problem been bothering you?

There's a lot of things people don't tell you.
Some will say it's for your own good.
I say it's because we secretly enjoy watching others suffer the same fate we ourselves have sloshed through before.

Like before you have a kid, for example.
Breast feeding is natural.

LIE.

It may occur in a natural, organic way.
The magic of me making my precious perfect baby grow.
Looking all idealic in the delicate charcoal sketch in my What to Expect books.

That is where the natural part ends.

Getting it to work, in sufficient amounts, at the right times, without drenching your clothes just because another baby you didn't give birth to is crying. Not natural.

Without giving you mean, horrible red spots that are evidently only a precursor to the real delight of learning that you can get yeasty there and it will make it feel like someone is pulling knives out of two of the most delicate area-olas on the body. . Not natural.


There. I said it.
Don't say I didn't warn you.


Want another one?

I likewise was not told by a single married woman that I would be responsible for my beloved husband's complete and total body health in it's entirety. Forever.

Man and woman meet.
Man and woman fall in love.
Man and woman marry.
Man fails to notice leg has fallen off until wife carries leg into garage and asks what happened.

I need to notice when he is sick because he will say he is just tired and it's more than likely my fault he is tired because I asked him to go to the grocery store and get dry cleaning.

I need to get him to a dentist. "No, honey, that's not normal, to bleed when you brush."

I need to convince an otherwise brilliant man that a multi-vitamin is not, in fact, poison, simply because it makes his pee fluorescent yellow.

I need to break the news that he will one day be 50 and need to do that thing with the camera on the long tubes that scrapes the polups. I cannot spell it. You know what I mean. I frankly think he's already a little annoyed with me about that one.

Really, though, how hard can it be to keep an essentially healthy husband healthy?

Except I married a man who doesn't get sick.
At least not according to him.

He calls cough drops "medicine" and has suggested on more than one occasion that I "drugged" him with a Halls.

Exhibit A: Advil.
"Heather, it puts me to sleep."
"Wow, can I get some of those Advil?"

Lucio also has elevated cholesterol. Has had it forever.
Evidently, it's genetic in his case.

Care to guess when he filled his first prescription?
Three weeks after we returned from our honeymoon.
Did I mention we went to Paris and Rome? Elitist leak. Not sorry.

Lucio had seen dentists before we were married, but I suspect they had side gigs as cattle prodders because dentisty wasn't proving to be as lucrative as they had hoped.

The worst? His toes. Or more aptly, his toe nails.

Like he didn't have any.

15 years standing in a puddle behind 2 feet of oak passing beers and refilling ice stations had been hard on my handsome mans tootsies.

I think I was pregnant with Jack when those commericials started for how to erradicate funkitoenailitis. The cartoon one, where the toe nail gets lifted up.
Gross.

I could make them look right?
He could wear something besides sneakers and square toed Cole Haan's?
Sign us up!

Already tired of being forced to wear socks to bed, Lucio was open to the idea.
"Call that foot doctor, baby. I will get you in a pair of flip flops yet!"

Sneakers to the beach. If my own body image issues are not enough in a swimsuit, my beloved is marching across the sand in Nikes. Yeah, he's that guy.

Off to the podiatrist we go.

Upon arrival, Lucio is given a questionaire to complete. I am hungrily pouring over Entertainment Weekly. That Lindsey Lohan! What a rising star!

Lucio's name is called.
Lucio invites me to the consult.

Surprised? Nope. Because he hates hates hates when I ask him to call the doc back two days later because he didn't get all the answers I was hoping for.

We enter an actual office with a desk.
We sit across from the doctor.
Young. Cute thing. Bet he wears Tivas.

Scanning the piece of paper, doc is all "uh huh, yes, I see."

Out of nowhere, explosive laughter from doc.

Really? What could be so funny?


Questionaire: How long has this problem been bothering you?

Lucio's answer: It doesn't bother me. It bothers my wife.


Doc: "I'm hanging this one on my wall."


Tell the truth doc, how much business would you have were it not for the tenacious certitude of wives like me?

Toot Toot

Blop. Blop. Blop.

Giggle. Giggle. Giggle.

Two teeth missing, Jack slides around the tub laughing his 5 year old head off.

"Mommy, I tooted."

"Yes, Jack, I know...I heard it, and now I smell it. It's just gas."

"Hee hee hee what? It's what?"

"Gas. Toots are just gas from the food we eat."

"Really? What foods, Mommy?"

"In your case, broccoli and beans."

"I don't eat beans Mommy. You know that."

"Really, are green beans beans?"

"No, Mommy. Green beans are not beans. They are green beans. Duh."

"Okay, well, these things make gas and it comes out as toots. Let's go, buddy. Bath, Books, Bed." Kind of like "Gym, Tan, Laundry" except with genuine earning potential.

A few minutes later we're liberally applying Aquafore to every bendy part of our child. He gets really really dry. Like desert dry.

I've been lotioning him like this since he was born. Danielle said you knew Jack was ready for bed because he was easily seen by his reflecting off the moon.

"Why don't you put lotion on my bottom Mommy?"

"Do you need lotion on your tush?"

"No. But why don't you put it on me like you put on Piper."

"I still give you a massage, just like Piper."

"But you put the lotion all around her gashole."


Jack had to finish lotioning himself.
The adults in the room were dizzy from laughing so hard.

Damn it, the kid is already funnier than me.

Hello, AARP? I think I have some interesting news for you.

Cell phone rings.
2:45 pm on a Thursday.
In February.

I answer, "Yes, Mom."

A raspy voice says, "Hi, honey, it's Mom. Do you have any penicillin laying around the house?"

"I don't understand Mom. Do you mean antibiotics?"

"Yes, Heather. Penicillin. Antibiotics. It's the same thing. Do you have a few I could have?"

"Of prescription antibiotics?"

"Yes, Heather. Do you have any?"

"No, Mom, I don't think we do. Why would we? When we get a prescription, the instructions say to take all medication. We usually do, um, well, that."

"Oh, Heather, that's ridiculous. You feel better after a few days. You don't need them all. The doctor always gives a few extra. Don't you usually call for a refill and then keep it around for the next time? I have a terrible sore throat."

Pause. Longer Pause. Is it possible I am doing this wrong?

"Sorry. No. Sore throat, huh? Maybe it's the dry air? It's pretty dry and cold here and you did live in Florida - which is usually pretty um, moist. Maybe you need a cough drop?"

Snarky subtle judgment meets screaming silence.

"I guess I'll call my doctor to get something filled up here. You really should keep those around for when Lucio gets whatever you have or vice vera. You could give it to Jack!"

" Give what to Jack? He's been through day care and is now in Kindergarten - he's doing the backstroke in a petridish as we speak. Sorry, okay Mom. Wait - You're doctor will do that?"

"Do what?"

"Call in a prescription from a phone call?"


"Of course he will. Yours won't?

"I can diagnose pink-eye and strep at 20 paces and I still need fork over my co-pay. Aren't antibiotics for things that are viral. How do you know this is viral?"

"What honey? I didn't hear you. The baby is squeeling. I know it's viral because I had the same cold when I left here after Christmas. Can you pick it up for me? Where should I have it called into?"

"The Walgreen at Springfield and Mattis. Let me google the number. And, um, it was cold at Christmas too. Again, moisture."


"Thank you, honey. Hey, are you feeling better? Did you go to the doctor?"

"No, not for a sore throat."

Click.