We are visiting my parents farm again and we are planning to stay for 3.5 days straight. My wife, Holly, who was not able to travel with us, had two funerals on the same day to attend in southeastern Minnesota. One would have been enough — her good friend’s father had passed. But add to that one of her father’s valued and long time employees at his door company had suddenly died of heart failure. It occurs to me that double headers should only be for baseball.
Anyway, my task is to take our oldest two children (Peyton, age 3 and, Autumn, age 4) with me to the farm in Russell. This will keep them from turning these solemn events in the southeastern part of the state into Barnum and Bailey impromptu’s. Can you hear the questions they would ask out loud? — “What’s in there? Why is he in there? What if he gets thirsty? Why are they so sad? Should we sing the cheer-up song?” The potential discomfort far outweighed any benefit of their attending.
My wife is taking our third child (Karsyn, barely age 1), since that is the age that can sometimes be more inspiring in glum settings, not to mention the big plus that she cannot utter a single word of the English language to shatter a memorial moment. So, we have divided in the hope of conquering.
Now, this puts us on the farm for over 3 days, and the implications are only now starting to sink in. Farms are busy places even if there are no animals around (save worthless, needy cats), and children get filthy in the fun rather quickly. This doesn’t seem like much of a problem until you realize that my wife has handled 99.64% of all of the child-bathing to date. I handled one in the year 2000 (only one child at that time) with a sequel in 2001 (more of a rinse, really). But since then, nothing. I know what you are thinking — “that shirker of parental responsibilities”, “that dead beat bather”, “the audacity of that man!”. Go ahead, say what you will, I have it coming and I’ll take it like a man.
Though, I will say one thing — I was always finding something very worthy to do during these hygiene moments. In particular, I would often be doing something equally undesirable that my wife would then not have to do, such as taking stinky diaper trash to the curb. I might also be doing something that she apparently will not ever do such as change the oil on the family vehicles. AAAHHHAAA! She shirks too! No changing oil for her. The obvious grime and grease, and not-so-obvious bugs on that garage floor were where she apparently bowed out.
Meanwhile, back on the farm . . . .
We’re on day 2.5 of our visit and the kids don’t really smell too bad, but they are starting to have significant “regions of stickiness”, and beginner dread locks are starting to form in their hair. That moment which I must rise to meet has arrived, so I do so by asking their loving grandmother if she would like to bathe them. She indicated that she would be happy to do so. Unfortunately, their equally loving grandfather pointed out that I should step up to the plate and let grandmother work up some lunch for the entire crew. Blast.
|
| At that point I was displaying a rather grim countenance, involuntarily. My feeble mind considered a number of options like rolling them in baby powder as a stopgap measure. But I wasn’t sure which was easier to explain — a) why they didn’t get a bath at all; or b) why they looked like powdered donuts.
Just then, an innovative idea came over me (hey, it happens!), and I made the command decision that they will take their first-ever showers, and it will be far-and-away easier on all of us. Baths at home usually mean splashing, playing, giggling, squirting, spraying and all of that funny business — none of which are allowed under the formal bathing protocols outlined in the Geneva Convention of 1864. With that focus in mind, we formed a straight line and marched into the bathroom.
It didn’t start so well, as they were quite confused when I turned on the water and redirected it through the shower head. They stood there on the bathroom floor, a combined 60 lbs and naked, jaws dropped, looking confused, even scared. I assured them that it would be fun.
They requested permission to speak freely and it was granted. Peyton asked me why it was raining in there. Autumn indicated that mommy didn’t do it this way. It was then that permission to speak freely was suspended.
Peyton kept turning his face up toward the water and opening his eyes. He choked on the water that ran up his nostrils, and squealed from the pain of the soap slowly glazing over his wide-open, brown eyes. Well, they’re red now. Oh, and the water was “too hot”.
Autumn, was visibly trembling as well as slipping, but she at least kept her eyes closed. Oh, and the water was “too cold”.
In the end it went faster than a bath. They were cleanER, comparatively. And there are now two Minnesotans with more character than previously. (OK, I’m stretching, work with me here.)
Unfortunately, in my haste to get the show over with so that they might see the virtue of how quick it was, I didn’t dry them very thoroughly and I put the same clothes back on which they had worn prior to the fiasco. They didn’t seem to notice, as they fled for the safety of their grandparents.
I would like to take this opportunity to tell my wife how appreciated she is. And to show my deep gratitude for all she does, I would like to volunteer to represent the family at all funerals, no matter how many there are in one day, from this day forth, as long as we both shall live.
That's my report from the Big City.
Brian in the Big City
Employee #0090698
|
