“Baths are the WORST thing…”
13 Jul 2010 1 Comment
Maybe if you’re a hyper four-year-old boy. Maybe.
This morning I crawled out of bed in time to babysit Sam, Ezra, and my three little second cousins who live in the area for a couple hours so Mom could do some stuff.
On her way out the door, Mom mentioned that Sam and Ezra were both in dire need of a bath. “You can even put them in the tub together, and let Sam help you with Ez.”
Okay.
I can do this, right? Piece of cake. I’ve bathed plenty of kids 0-5 before, just not at the same time.
Heh, yeah right.
I was carrying Ezra around in one arm, of course, so I walked back to the living room to locate Sam. Turning on oozy excitement and finding a smile somewhere (quite a feat before 9 in the morning) I looked Sam straight in the eyes, “Sam! Guess what! You get to take a bath this morning! Go grab some clean clothes and I’ll start your bathwater.”
Glazed stare from the four-year-old.
“Bath, that’s right.” I reached down with my free arm and nudged him to his feet.
Somewhat grudgingly but without too much complaint he made his way to the bathroom.
Once there however, the complaints unleashed.
“Baths are the WORST thing!” Sam moaned.
“Tough luck, buddy, you’re never gonna get away from them. Sorry about your luck.”
“Why are you undressing Ezra? I don’t want to take a bath.”
“Ezra’s gonna take the bath with you. It’ll be fun. Hop in the tub.”
“WWWWHHHHAAAAATTTTT??????”
Sam splashed his way into the tub and sat there looking miserable as I carefully set Ezra in the water with him.
“I don’t want to take a bath with Ezra.”
“Oh for pity’s sake, he’s your little brother! He can’t even sit up by himself!”
“But I don’t want to.”
“I remember Mom giving me baths with Andrew. Stop whining.” (My tolerance of his whining is decreasing, even while I’m starting to giggle at how far his lower lip is thrust out)
The whining continued… and continued… and continued… All the while Sam is whining, Ezra is laughing, and splashing, and the world’s happiest baby-in-bath. Guess they balance each other out.
Yes, I have to agree with you, he's just about the cutest thing ever--this picture is not from the morning bath session though. I didn't quite have enough hands to manage the two kids, let alone two kids plus a camera....
And just for some perspective... Sams lower lip was about 3 inches further out.
After one too many “This is weird.” comments I finally swallowed my giggles and solemnly swore to him that if he didn’t shut up he wouldn’t take a bath by himself until he was twelve.
The whining stopped.
Of course, it might have stopped because Sam finally laid eyes on a squirt gun that was floating around the bathtub. He got the most rotten grin on his face and promptly squirted me.
And squirted.
And squirted.
The problem was that the more he grinned and squirted, the more I giggled–and I was holding a three-month-old in the water. Suffice it to say i had no free extremity to swipe the squirt gun from him until I spent enough time juggling the baby and the washcloth that he had me wetter than the baby.
Coughing water out of my mouth, I assured Sam that I’d had quite enough water and he subsided a little sheepishly.
For five minutes.
I looked up from washing Ezra in time to see Sam, with one of those little yellow ducks and that tell-tale mischievous grin. Didn’t even have time to duck. 
(pun very much intended)
The long and short? I think there’s a good chance I got wetter than Sam did.
Live from Manhat… urm… the pro-shop…
04 Jul 2010 Leave a Comment
**The following may not be misquoted, or normally quoted, to use against me. This post is the mere result of my desire to entertain the blogging world and (i’m sure) great ability to poke fun at my supreme level of incompetency. Enjoy. If you blackmail me, I’ll squirt armor-all on your leather seats.**
There are certain things that some girls are born without. Mental maps of Lowes, for example. The mysteries of the universe that might as well just not be mysteries, because, if we’re being completely honest, we couldn’t care less if we knew or not. Until yesterday. For me anyways.
No, not Lowes again.
Golfcarts.
Simple enough, right? There is one speed (gas pressed flat on the floor), brakes (requires going up a large hill–especially as a result of the gas pedal), no seat belts, ( 
), no windshield (bugs in your mouth), little bars that you can hold onto if you can grow a third arm in time to catch yourself before you fall out of the cart… and this awesome smooth leather seat that’s about three feet long (more on that later).
Needless to say, golf carts are a LOT of fun. I mean, who needs to play golf as long as you have a golf cart?! The only problem is that some golf carts have gas tanks.
Why a problem?
Whoever invented them left off the gas gauge.
The rental carts do okay. I check the gas when I pull them out each morning, and as a result they never get much below a half tank. My arch-nemesis, however, aka the Range-Ball-Cart, has a very large thing on the front that picks up the balls. This very large thing makes the cart feel like a whale, and somehow it just really isn’t worth it to drive the cart all the way out to the gas tank every day. So I usually just turn the cart on and press the gas down. If it goes, I promise myself that I’ll gas it up “tomorrow”. And as we all know, the best part about “tomorrow” is that it’s “always a day away.”
Yesterday, my folly caught up with me. I was cruising along, out by the 200 yard line, when the engine sputtered, coughed, and stopped moving. There was no question in my mind that the gas had run out.
Not too much of a problem. I’ll just hike back up the hill (yes, the driving range is on a hill) get the gas can, fill it up, come back down, and dump it in the gas tank. Easier said than done. The gas can is about 5 gallons, which means it’s a little heavy when it’s full. Not too bad, I can lift it without trouble, but it is neighboring on heavy. The golf cart has a bunch of weird bars sticking up all around the hole for the gas tank JUST to make my life difficult. Because there is no way to get the two-inch nozzle to the gas entry point. Period.
As you all may or may not know, I try to be a pretty creative girl once in a while. It isn’t convenient, but I’ll get a smaller container and use it to pour the gas into the tank.
Two words about that.
Styrofoam melts.
It was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen, but styrofoam melts like butter in a hot skillet when you pour gas in it.
I finally found a plastic container that was about 16 ounces, and proceeded to pour in, pour out, pour in, pour out, pour in, pour out…. you get the idea. After the gas can was about half empty I finally realized maybe I could crawl on the seat, lean over the back and dump the gas into the tank from a distance. The gas can somehow managed to wedge itself in a thoroughly upright position, directly over the gas tank hole.
Luckily, before I was able to contemplate finding a screwdriver and shoving it through the gas-can to make a hole into the gas-tank, or my head, one of the lovely older couples at the country club came to my rescue. Mr. Smith unstuck the gas can, filled the gas tank, and all in about half the time it took me to melt a styrofoam cup.
No matter what they say, chivalry isn’t dead.
My career as a mechanic may be.
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