How to not give a bath

My thoughts this evening have gone something like, "Jesus wouldn't really care too much if my kids went to church stinky tomorrow, right?" "Honestly, the son of God didn't have running water, so I'm sure he didn't always smell fresh as a daisy." "Clean hair is really overrated." "I could just put perfume on them. They'd feel super special."

Between some late nights I've had, Charlie having a cough and sinus issues, the Boy sneezing and pinching or pulling something in his neck and back this morning and now me with something funky happening with my left eye, I'm just not really in the mood to deal with a bath time fight.

I don't know if I could stand for them to not bathe, though. And a thorough wash up isn't going to cut it because my kids use their hair as napkins - I think there are tomato seeds, ice cream and chocolate milk in Charlotte's hair right now.



I'm not really complaining so much as I am seeing the irony in how much physical crap was tossed our way in the last 24 to 48 hours.

And then there's the oven that I somehow broke. OK, broke may not be the best word. I cleaned the microwave by exploding boiling water and vinegar mixed together to get all the shit to wipe off easily ... like I always do. When I opened the door, some of the condensation ran down the door and, therefore, down the front panel for the oven. The oven, which then gave me an error code, wouldn't let me do anything when I touched the buttons and has run the fan continuously whenever we flip the breaker back on so I can bake something or use the microwave. Because they're wall units. And we can't seem to figure out where to unplug the oven.

The Boy has had the panel apart no less than three times monkeying with the circuitry in there, because he's the resident expert, but has "forgotten" to call the company to ask them just what the fuck do we do now. I say "forgotten" because, let's face it, he has a penis and anything with a penis thinks they can fix everything. Until they can't and their wives/girlfriends/mothers and occasionally daughters have to jump in, call the 1-800 number in the manual and beg for professional mercy.

We aren't quite to that point yet, but we're getting damn close. My patience is thin because of the sickly minion and my one good eye being in pain, and now the pulled muscles or whatever he's dealing with might be making me want to take the oven out of the wall and throw it ... at his head. And then throat punch him a little.

But like I said, we aren't quite there yet.

We have, however, arrived at bath time. For real. I sat here long enough saying, "Hey girls, you should go get in the bath" that Boy Wonder finally took them upstairs.

Now, since we haven't flipped the breaker off yet for the evening, I think I'll explode myself some water and make a cup of tea to drink while I listen to him grunt through muscle pain and I try desperately not to touch whatever it is that's going on with my eye.

With any luck, Josie will remain unscathed.