Precious Secret

20. Getting to know. (Part 1)

Krystina

I have heard a number of horror stories,too many to count, from parents recalling just how terrible bath time is for them.

Their children scream, and kick, and throw things at the mere thought of taking a bath. And these parents are the ones who have to dodge toy trucks being thrown their way, whilst simultaneously trying to wrestle that child into the tub.

For me and my son, however, it's a completely different story.

Rather than having to wrestle Bryan into the tub, I have to wrestle him out.

If he had it his way, he would live in the bathroom and only come out to eat and watch Gumball.

After telling Bryan that we would be having a special guest over for dinner tonight, I ushered him, very willingly, into the bathtub.

I told him, and I quote "we gotta be quick baby, so I can fix your hair and finish dinner." That's what I said. Verbatim.

Yet, for some reason, more specifically Bryan's toddler tantrum, here I sit on the edge of the tub, thirty five minutes later, listening to the bath time selections by the illustrious Bryan Green.

"Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub-a-dub-dub. Gotta wash, wash, wash, in between my toes. Take all the boogers, out my nose." He giggles and splashes, humoring himself with the thought of nasal mucus.

Boys.

"Okay, honey, you really have to get out now. I gave you and extra 10 minutes, twice, and you're thoroughly wrinkled." I try to reason with him.

He looks at me, furrows his brows a bit, opens his mouth to argue, then, seeing the no nonsense set to my face, obliges.

Hell must be freezing over.

I grab his superman towel and, ignoring the slight twinge in my back, bend over to take him out of the tub and dry him off.

After he's been thoroughly dried, I attempt, keyword attempt, to style his hair in an appropriate manner. I wanted to see if I would be able to slick it all down towards the back, but of course, Bryan's curly locs put up a fight. And win. So I settle for what has, in the past few weeks, become Bryan's new favorite hairstyle: a manbun.

I lead him out of the bathroom, and across the hall to his room. I move to help him with his undies, just as he moves to push my hands away. "No." He whines. "I can do it my own self." He pouts.

Sweet Jesus, he's growing up. "Okay, babe. No problem. After you get into your undies, how about you get yourself dressed as well?" He nods excitedly. I lean closer towards him, "Wear something Clark Kent would wear." I tell him, knowing he'll understand that better than me telling him to wear something semi-formal.

"YES!" He says enthusiastically, before I leave him to get dressed.

I hurry downstairs, only then noticing how little time I have left.

We're having chicken salad and a side of breadsticks, for dinner. The chicken breast is done, but the lettuce is still sitting nicely packaged in the refrigerator.

I get it out quickly, along with everything else I need, and get to work.

20, long minutes later, my fingers are slightly bruised from my grip on the knife, but the chicken and salad are chopped and ready to be plated.

I've been watching a lot of cooking shows recently, so I know that plate presentation is key, and these plates, if I may say so myself, are looking mighty delectable.