Time for a steamy, hot, shower. Leaning over, I topple my long hair in a high twist and drop my clothes to the floor. Pushing the play button, Dean Martin's enchanting voice croons. Singing, as if he is tasting the words. "Send me the pillow, that you dream on, so darlin, I can dream on it too." So fine, even with a smoke in his hand.
Not two minutes after turning on the faucet, I hear "mommie he is spitting at me" from one of my daughters banging on the bathroom door. Immediately followed by my son's adamant "what a little liar she is." Lots of familiar toe shadows are moving under the door. "Mommie, he's lying. He spit and me and what are you going to do about it?" "Mommie you know what a liar she is, I can proove it, she is just being a bitch"
At that, I open the shower door. "Hey, hey, hey, don't cuss! Why would she say that you spit at her if you didn't. Were you talking and maybe spit, but didn't realize it? What are you arguing about to begin with?"
My attempt is ignored, and it goes on "Mommie, he is spitting at me and it is my turn on the computer. See you like him better!"
Wrapping a towel around myself, I reach for the door. Opening it, to a bunch of young ens, with green eyes and freckles. Hannah and her brother have been joined by Hayley, with the baby crawling down the hall as fast, as fat little legs can go. His diaper is swish swish swishing. He is serious about not being left out, making me smile.
Ten minutes later, still in the towel, I step back into the shower and try again.
Yea, you guessed it. "Mommie!"
So, not to loose control of the situation, I have a Welcome mat at the front door, and a "Ya'll, Just Come On In" sign on the bathroom door.
