It’s that time of day. I’m in what is supposed to be our master bathroom with all three kids and our puppy again. The shower is running, and the seven-year-old is standing in it, not washing anything, just standing and drawing stuff with his fingertips in the steam on the glass door. The oval bathtub meant for relaxing is full of bubbles thanks to the six-year-old who claims she did not empty half the contents of the body wash into it, and the one-year-old seated beside her is excitedly squealing, splashing, and shouting, “BUBBLES!” whilst the puppy attempts to eat all airborne bubbles being flung in jubilation. Crazy O’clock has commenced.
“Wash your armpits and your bum.” “It’s time to get out.” “Can you hear me, son?” “Come on out; here’s your towel.” “Now.” These are the nagging phrases I try to politely say like a broken record to the showering one; well, I mean “drawing one.”
“Stop flicking water at the dog,” “Hold still, & let me rinse your hair,” “Baby, don’t drink that water,” “Geez, get out of here, dog!” These are the commands I am making to the youngins just a splashin’ in the tub and their lone, furry audience member as I nearly slip on all of the water she hasn’t caught in her mouth.
Once the water fun is done, the practicing for future cross country track meets begins. It’s not just the nudey kids running amuck laughing and refusing to put on pajamas just like their mother supposedly did as a child or so says their Nanny (this clearly is payback) - even the dog has a circular warpath she repeatedly makes through our first floor for at least five minutes that would make even the Tasmanian Devil’s head spin. She becomes a beast and sounds like a war horse tromping through our humble abode. I wait to hear a crash, and sometimes I do, which is often followed by overreactions by all parties involved.
Never miss a local story.
Once all twelve of my kids’ limbs are slightly dry and wrestled into pajamas, nearly sixty teeth are to be brushed to the 2-minute rule’s satisfaction. As our kids grow, I feel certain that growing dental bills are also in our near future. I tell them this; it doesn’t help.
They’re pajama clad and their whites are nearly pearly, but now they’re calling each other names, erupting in a shouting match, standing on my bed, dancing with their reflections in the mirror, smacking their bottoms as the toddler emulates them, laughing hysterically, and all the while, they can’t hear me or perhaps they can, and they simply choose not to. I’m good at performing that trick, too, and as a mom you quickly learn to be selective in your hearing and to choose your battles, so to speak so I opt to let some of this crazy behavior slide.
These kids are beyond silly and have become just absolutely crazy, and the fact that I continue to take all three kids in there each night at the same time is crazy. It’s crazy time.
I guess I’m a one fell swoop kinda gal, or I’m a glutton for punishment. Each time the crazy meter shifts into high gear I hear a chant in my head, “I am never doing this again...I am never doing this again”, but I always do it again. I am a sucker, and I tend to believe in that old adage, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.”
I will go ahead and point this out for you. My bigger kids have probably reached the age where yes, they need to be separated from being in the same room during bath time. I get it. I know. Again, I’m all for doing things with ease, so once again I don’t know why I do this.
Tomorrow night a new trend and schedule shall begin in this household. I am putting my wet foot down. I will take the time to make this time less crazy.