Bath Time (I Did It Again)

The normal pattern for bath nights around here (and baths do not happen every night) includes stripping the kids down to their diapers and then marching them into the bathroom where they ditch the diaper and dive into the water (well, they are raised and lowered into the tub, but I was going for the alliteration of all those D's).

Then I hang out in the bathroom with them as they play with their toys, splash, dance, pretend to be fish, and dump water on themselves, on each other, and on me.  Sometimes I break out the bubbles and they practice popping them or, more recently, catching them before they pop.  They've even tried their hands (or, rather, lips) at blowing bubbles themselves.  This hasn't worked out in all cases, for a variety of reasons - Caroline blows through her teeth like she's pronouncing a prolonged, whispery "F", while Max gets alternatingly shy, blowing too softly, or giddy, pulling the wand too close and ending up with bubble juice on his lips.  Daniel has been most consistently able to propel the bubbles out and into the world, which pleases him to no end.

Bath time ends after everyone has had their hair washed and conditioned.  Usually someone will ask to get out and that starts a domino effect and they all get out.  Sometimes one will insist on staying in the bath until all the water is gone from the tub.  Frequently, this is Caroline, but sometimes Daniel wants to be alone in the tub to stretch out on his tummy and "swim".  When they get out, I dry them, wrap them in a diaper, and send them scampering out to play with Daddy.

When the third child has been released, I grab a set of PJs for them and come out to try to get them dressed.  Often this is not the foremost activity on their list - they would rather continue to play in their diapers.  So I often wait around with a pile of PJs and take advantage of opportunities to grab kids and clothe them.

Last week, I had a pair of firetruck PJs (blue shirt with a truck and red-and-blue striped pants) for Daniel, monkey PJs (orange shirt with a monkey and orange-and-grey striped pants) for Max, and elephant PJs (turquoise shirt with an elephant and navy pants with turquoise polka dots) for Caroline.  I had them next to me on the couch and offered them to passing children with no takers.  Then one child climbed up next to me and pointed to the top PJ shirt and said, proudly, "Fire Truck!"  I responded, "That's right, Daniel, that's your fire truck shirt!  Do you want to wear it?" and hearing no opposition (and seeing no child squirm away from me), I put the shirt on him.  But he balked at the pants, so we just sat there on the couch next to each other, he wearing a blue fire truck shirt and me waiting with the matching pants and two other sets of PJs on the seat next to me.

A minute or so later, he pointed over to the pile of PJs and asked, "Monkey?"

"Yes, those are monkey PJs"

More plaintively this time, "Monkey?"

"No, honey, you have your fire truck PJs"

And even more pathetically, "Monkey???"

"No, those are Max's monkey PJs"

At which point, Joe looked over and said, "Umm...that's Max sitting next to you."

And, of course, it was.

Oops.

So I switched him into his monkey shirt and tried to give him enough kisses to count as an apology.