Audrey's having one of those days...when she shadows me all over the house. Full of questions. The same one, over and over. "Mommy, what are you do--ing?" "I do it." (as she wedges herself between me and the dryer, or washer, or countertop.) I maintain my assertion that "I do it" is the dirtiest 3 word sentence, ever, more dangerous than "I love you" and just as aggravating.
Right now, she's wedged herself behind me in the chair I'm sitting in. "You write," she commands as she points at the screen.
But of course, dearie, I think, biting back the 'go away' that is on the tip of my tongue. If I say it, she'll never leave. Ahh. Relief. I can breathe again seeing as how she's removed her knee from my lumbar region...by some twist, she's managed to realign me. Snap, crackle, pop. Perhaps that's her calling. (I was hoping it was her nap that would be calling, but who am I kidding? Dad just walked in for lunch, she's not gonna miss that!)
Earlier, I was in the shower. Every Mom knows there are 3 different kinds of showers you get to take once there are tiny bodies running around the house: the long leisurely shower, where you are allowed the luxury of actually shaving both legs and getting out of there before anyone notices you've been gone; the 5 minutes of uninterrupted bliss shower, where you are allowed to get the shampoo into your hair, but then in your eyes when someone comes in unannounced, throwing open the door with a primal scream that makes you surely believe you will encounter a bloody stump somewhere in the house as you are told that "he changed the channel!" (there's an emergency--and even if you make it uninterrupted through this one, chances are you will look down as you are getting out and see small fingers or hands sticking into the bathroom under the door); and the just-let-my-body-see-the-water shower, the quickie you allow yourself as you swear you can make it in, out, and dressed, ready to go anywhere in the five minutes you have left before you have to leave, after getting everyone else ready first. This shower is perfected during the newborn time, when you are only allowed the option of shower or sleeping, but not both, and may never include anything other than rudimentary hygiene--no shaving or enjoying that new body wash with this one, nooooo, this is just pure splish, splash, splosh hope-I-still-don't-stink bathing. And if you think that the long, leisurely shower is something that takes longer than 15 minutes, you are sadly mistaken, and must relinquish your next shower privileges.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Earlier, I was in the shower. I had done all my prep before I went in, turning the tv on in my room to Nick Jr (Blues Clues), bringing the phone into the bathroom (I know I don't have to explain this one, lol), and letting her know, "Hey, Mommy's gonna jump in the shower and will be right out. So leave me alone for a minute, got it?"
Okay, not success. The door opens. Sigh. "Yes, Audrey." Babble, babble. Door shuts. I turn off water. Door opens. "What are you do-ing?" Sigh. "I'm getting out now. Privacy please." "Ok." Door shuts....almost. She comes in again. "Get out." "You got towel.." "Get out." "You...<babble, babble, why can't I understand her today?>" "I said privacy, and you're making me cold in here..." and I'm about to give her the big voice 'get out' when she says:
"Your arms are all wet. I can't give you a hug." With her arms outstretched. Looking adorable.
Great. Now there's no way I'm using the big voice.
What else can I do but smile and tell her to wait until I'm dry? <grin>
<evil grin> Oh, she'll want to take a long shower, someday. And payback, well...we all know what they say about that! <heh heh heh heh>