I tend to be quite brisk at bath time. I’m tired; the kids are not; and I’m ready to be rid of them.
Did I just say that?
Anyway, the three little hens and I had spent a very nice afternoon at a local park while Daddy took the boys for some guy time. Come 8:00 p.m. and I was spent. I started the bath and I dropped them in—three little girls (I presumed) covered in layers of sweat and dirt and sidewalk chalk.
Focused as I was on the laying out of towels and the whisking away of dirty garments, I paid little attention to the steady stream of chatter. I have gotten used to tuning them out because they’re girls, for heaven’s sake. They never stop.
I did, however, note with humor the following monologue. Evidently the bath water was warmer than they would have liked and Cate was cheerfully venting.
“Mom, I know you like it hot but don’t take it out on me! The roast is almost done! Soon the chicken can be taken off the spit and be free…”
“And get eaten!” shrieked her sister.
“Hot enough for you?” I asked, feigning innocence. It was, they assured me, and with a wry little smile I turned it down.
Ad Jesum per Mariam,