My bath time has been hi-jacked by The Rat. Mommy’s cheap ass will
no longer pay for twice the water, so I have to get naked with my baby sister.
We must frolic in the water together. Some of you might find this a reasonable
enough transition, but I am here to inform you of the latter.
Typically, when I am bathing by myself, mommy will step out of the
room for increments of one to two minutes to put some laundry away, fold some
towels, pick up toys, refresh a cocktail, etc. While I sit in the tub alone,
waiting to slip and fall and crack my head and maybe drown, I am permitted to
do things that I would not do were she in the room. (No, not those
kinds of things, pervs.) For instance, a couple of weeks ago, mommy could not
figure out why the lever you pull to switch the bath water to the shower head
kept jamming up and not working. She later made the discovery that I had jammed
three miniature dinosaurs up into the bath faucet, making it impossible to pull
the lever up. This triggered a series of questions from her, most of which I
find rhetorical and unworthy of a response. “What is the matter with
you?” “Why do you think its okay to do shit like this?” “Why are you such a little punk?” So I just sat there, naked, wide-eyed and innocent-looking, like I had no idea what the fuss was about. Fifteen minutes later, she had the pliers, two different kinds of tweezers and
a coat hanger that she was using to MacGyver those dinos out of the faucet. She
was only able to retrieve one. And when she gave up on the other two because
she cut herself and started bleeding, I howled for her to please, please,
please rescue my other dinosaurs! They are very scared in there all by
themselves! Mommy please, rescue them! Needless to say, my response was an
eyebrow raise, a seriously, dude? and a cold-hearted bitch cackle as she band-aided her finger.
I also enjoy dumping large cups of water onto the floor when she
is absent. And then I will call her back in just so I can sit upright and
proudly point at the puddle on the floor. This age-old game has clearly become
tiresome for mommy, and it really pisses her off. Again, the questions. “What is the matter with you?” “Why do you think it’s okay to do shit like this?” “Why are you such a little punk?” If I wanted to get technical with my response, I could accuse her of child
neglect, because I know she’s not supposed to leave me in the tub alone to
appease her drinking habit, but I figure this would get me in more trouble, so
I just reference a book that we have in the reading cycle right now. This
is the House Where Jack Lives is an entire cause-and-effect story based on
a boy who fucks up an entire apartment building because he takes a huge, messy
bath on the top floor of the building. This book is so purely awesome and
inspiring that I have the whole thing memorized. A boy gets hit in the head
with a pail. A fat lady drops a mop on a window washer. A black cat attacks a
maid after being stepped on. It rains in some bourgeois’ living room. I mean, it’s a debacle. And on the last page, we meet Jack, the brains behind it all. There he sits in
in his tub, three inches of water on the floor, with the shower and
the bath running, playing with his sailboat, grinning from ear-to-ear and just
having a fucking jolly good time. Anyway, I would friend this Jack
character on Facebook if I could.
So, you all get the point. Bath time folly is what I spend my
energy getting dirty on all day long. And now I have to share it with The Rat’s
rashy ‘gina and 100% parental supervision. Another phase of fun…phased out.
The only potential positive here is that I can use this time to guide Leona.
Teach her a few tricks, like spitting water in one another’s faces. Splashing
as hard as possible with both hands while the sliding glass door is open.
Whatever we can do to get a harsh, whispered shit! out of mommy and
maybe some empty threats about smacks on our bare asses.
In other news, I have finally learned how to ride my two-wheeler with training wheels. I think I just got so sick of the parental unit calling me lazy and telling me I wasn’t trying and blah-fucking-blah practice! practice! practice! that I decided to just do it so they could shove it up their asses. Then they were very proud. Mommy was about to cry out of pride and joy at the park yesterday when I was tooting around at about 5 m.p.h. until I saw some
chick hanging on the monkey bars with her belly exposed, and I stopped watching
where I was going, hit the curb, and went over. Do you think they had a helmet
on me? Of course not. Mommy said my thick, in-dire-need-of-a-trim head of hair would protect me. Whatever. Nothing like the gift of brain injury for your darling, three-year-old son. We’re so proud that he can ride his bike, but now he’s a fucking vegetable. Boo-hoo-hoo…
Anyway, I hear that weird theme song to the potato cartoon that I’ve started watching. Musical potatoes…I don’t know, man. There’s something about spuds harmonizing together that just draws me in…I can’t put my finger-ling on it. (Hey, I was born this funny, seriously.) Catch you on the flip.