Friday, October 9, 2009
In order to get the toothbrush inside Bob’s mouth, Jeff holds him on his lap and I pry open Bob’s teeth with one toothbrush and then brush with a second one, a system recommended by our pediatric dentist after my husband nearly lost a finger to Bob’s baby-pit-bull-death-grip.
It’s a nightly group effort with Jeff holding and soothing, me brushing and pleading, and Bob screaming and screaming some more.
The other night, Bob pulled one of his other old tricks into the rotation as we were trying to get him into the bathroom and did the boneless-legs-I-can’t-stand-up thing that kids excel at. I reacted in my calm, happy mommy way.
“Jeez, Bob, if you would just cut the B.S. we could get this over with.”
“What’s B.S., Mama?”
Jeff smiled broadly from his perch on the edge of the bathtub. Both guys stared at me expectantly.
“B.S. is an acronym.”
“What’s the B.S. for Mama?”
“Well... B.S. stands for ‘Bob Stuff’ so cut out that crazy Bob Stuff and let’s get on with it.”
My husband gave me a high five and a fist bump and Bob found his legs and screamed somewhat less enthusiastically than usual. Tiny victories.