Bath time is never just about getting clean for our son – it is an hour and a half, fun-filled water extravaganza. There are toys of course, but also target practice with squirt guns (suction cup monsters), Picasso time with watercolor paint sets (wet paper stays on the wall like it was glued there) and opera time (tub acoustics are fantastic).
Last night, after inadvertently bending one of his paint brushes nearly in half and having it shoot out of his hands and across the room, we found a new game.
Take aim, then squeeze the two ends of the brush together until it shoots out of your fingers, off the wall, and on to something else. It was fun – we tried to call our shot before we let fly, and Quinn was all giggles.
We ignored my husband’s call from the back room, “It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.”
Pfft. This is harmless. What could go wrong?
Then it was my turn again. Sitting on the toilets seat, I leaned back and aimed high – for the shower curtain bar – but missed. It smacked off the ceiling, bounced off a chair, went over my head, tinked off the toilet tank, hit the small of my back, then. . .disappeared?
I searched around to no avail. It wasn’t in the basket on top of the tank, not on the towel on the sink, not in the pile of jammies on the stool. Not behind the toilet. Not on the windowsill, or hung up in the curtain.
With nowhere else to look, I lifted the toilet seat.
And there it was, floating in the bowl.
We will not speak of the germs. Nor of my husband’s glee in refusing to come to my aid. Or the germs.
But that little space between the toilet rim and the seat is so skinny. If I sat for three days doing nothing but trying to make that shot, I would fail. The odds are so small.
But I’m considering it. By husband bet me his entire paycheck that I couldn’t do it again. Plus, if I did it, he’d fish it out. And I want a Kindle. But I want even more to make him go toilet fishing.