Ah, to be a little kid again, when the line between fantasy and reality is blurry and even mundane stuff is still exciting…
I wish, for example, that I could find ANYTHING as entertaining as my daughters find bath time. Seriously.
Even though they bathe all the time, they still race up the stairs, tripping over the clothes they’re simultaneously fighting to tear off, every single time they hear the bath is ready. “BUBBLES!” they scream, as though it didn’t happen yesterday, before dumping their basket of bath toys into the water and scrambling in.
They have all of these little plastic dolphins, crabs, mermaids, sharks, sea rays and other maritime-related toys. They have a ton and need every single one of them floating around to put them in the mood.
Tonight’s bath hysterics began when Brontë noticed that Bridget had bubbles on her chin. They started making bubble beards and laughing themselves into choking seizures.
Everything was peachy until I tried playing with them, making their toy shark swim menacingly through the water.
Brontë was quite offended. “It’s a NICE shark,” she told me. “Look mama, isn’t he cute? Pet him.”
“I SAID PET HIM!”
Alright Brontë, sorry to dampen the bubble party by suggesting anything ominous about your watery wonderland. I pet her toy shark with my finger and she seemed to forgive the insult.
Our kids love water so much that John and I have been thinking it’s time to get Brontë some swimming lessons. I decided to float the idea with her as we were wandering around McKinley Park the other day.
“You need some swimming lessons,” I told her as we walked by the public pool.
“But the pool is empty,” she said.
Looking over, I noticed the pool was, indeed, dry. Maybe they were cleaning it or something.
“Well, not necessarily here,” I said. “We can find you lessons somewhere else.”
She considered this as we walked along, hand-in-hand. We passed the empty pool and strolled up by the pond. Geese rioted nearby as a dad tossed handfuls of torn-up bread with his kid. Ducks were everywhere. I pointed out some cute little ducklings swimming in a line behind their mama.
“HEY,” Brontë said. “Maybe the ducks can teach me! They swim a lot.”
I considered for a moment what a shame it is to grow out of the idea that ducks can teach us to swim. I mean, we have to… it would be tough to negotiate the adult world with those kinds of unrealistic expectations, but what a let down.
“Hmm, that’s a good idea.” I told her. “But you need a human teacher because ducks won’t know how to teach someone without wings and webbed feet.”
Brontë thought about this. Splaying her fingers, she explained that she could fool them into believing her feet were webbed and could probably pass it off if I would just make her some duck wings
“Sorry, but I don’t know how to make duck wings. I don’t think they would be fooled, anyway.”
“Well, we could at least ASK them.”
Guess that’s true.