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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