Then she will look up. She will hold her palm outstretched. I have a lot too much, she'll lament in her own special diction. I need to go wash my hands.
Yesterday found all five of us at a big-box store where the girls picked out a four-pack of scented bodywashes. "Excellent," I said, by way of reminding them that the holiday weekend was about to end, "you can use some in your bath or shower tonight because we have to get you back to a regular bedtime. You have school tomorrow." And then we went out for a late lunch and then we went out for ice cream and when we got home and unpacked our purchases, only L remembered right away that I'd said there'd be bath time just as soon as we returned.
When I walked upstairs ten minutes later L had gotten naked and emptied two entire bodywash bottles into the dry, empty bathtub. I ready for bath! she beamed. Twenty-four ounces of undiluted fruit-scented slime covered the entire floor of the tub. I turned on the water and tried to wash some away but the inevitable had already defined itself. I plugged the tub and let it fill with the slipperiest water ever witnessed by indoor plumbing. I scrubbed her clean and washed her hair and tried to rinse it bubble-free and didn't really succeed. The lovely husband arrived to towel her and carry her downstairs. "She'll need the spray conditioner in her hair," I told him, "the water was too soapy -- I couldn't really rinse it enough and her hair will dry out."
"Okay," he tossed over his shoulder.
"And she'll need lotion - sitting in all that soap will have been really drying to her skin."
Dangerous words, woman. Dangerous words.
Take a guess what L says, every time, as she walks towards the bathroom after she concedes she has too much lotion on her hands:
Mommy? I need the soap.