My mother loves to tell the story of the time that my dad was supposed to be watching me so she could take a bath. I was probably about 6. When he finally came looking for me, I was perched on the toilet with my toy guitar and had been serenading her in my truly awful singing voice for quite some time. The dog was laying in front of the tub listening (at least he thought I could sing). When My dad walked in, she told him she was going to start charging admission.
I never felt very sorry for my mom when she told that story. Even after having my own children. Afterall, I have four, she had one. She couldn’t have needed that bath, that solitude that badly. Could she?
I was reminded of that story today as I was in the shower. My two year old, Sarah, was happily playing downstairs while Daddy was working. Before I knew it, they were in the bathroom, playing a rousing game of peek-a-boo with me. First one side of the curtain, then over the top, then the other side. You get the idea.
This wasn’t even a luxurious, soaking, bath. It was a quick shower and they couldn’t just let me be in peace.
When I was finished, I had to dry off completely while still standing in the tub because Sarah was now brushing her teeth. Of course, the brushing kept being interrupted by her pointing, laughing and shrieking at my naked body.
I’m sorry, Mom. I’m. So. Sorry.