How Do You Fit in a Sink?

It’s haircut day for the Bean and Little One!  We go to this really cool place specifically targeted at kids.  They get to sit in big cars (think PowerWheels without the power, and on a stand to give them a little height).  There are individual TV screens showing programs like Thomas the Tank Engine.  They hand out lollipops like water. 

Two successful haircuts done!  Neither boy got upset about anything, which is a little unusual but, hey – I’m not questioning it.  I’m just handing over another lollipop and calling it a great morning.

In the car on the way home, the Bean asks me if the place I go to get my hair cut is the same as his.  I explain that I don’t get to sit in a car, which the Little One thinks is ludicrous.  I also tell them that while the ladies who cut their hair use a little spray bottle of water to wet their hair, I get mine washed in a sink.

The Little One bursts out laughing and says, “Do you have to sit on the drain?”  What?  I’m a little confused – sit on the drain?

The Bean starts laughing now, and says, “How do you fit in the sink, Mommy? That’s a little silly!”

Oh my God, what do they think goes on in a salon?!?  They’ve never been in one, so they’ve got no idea.  I’m laughing hard now, trying to picture what their imaginations must be conjuring in their little heads.  I’ve got a Dr. Seuess-esque illustration in my head of a person sitting, knees pulled to chest, wedged into a tiny little sink, with a dripping wet head.  “Boys, I don’t take a bath there.  I sit in a chair and they put my hair in the sink to wash it.  The rest of me stays dry.”

They laugh hysterically – this is the funniest thing they’ve heard all day, because they clearly don’t believe me.  How does  a person get their hair washed without being fully naked and in a bathtub?   

PB&J

On a recent Saturday, my husband and I were meeting friends for a late dinner and night out.  We’d been out with the boys all afternoon at a birthday party, and got home with an hour to get ourselves changed and feed the boys.  My husband, wonderful man that he is, says, “Go on and start getting ready.  I’ll feed the boys.”

“Okay,” I say.  “Cheese ravioli for the Bean.  The Little One wants peanut butter and jelly.”

He nods in response and as I’m walking out of the kitchen, I realize I’d better give my husband some pointers about the Little One’s PB&J.  He’s very particular.

“Um…about that sandwich…  he wants it cut into train shapes (we have a cutter for this).  And, when you make it, cut the bread into the train shapes before you make the sandwich, otherwise the filling will ooze and he won’t eat it.”

My husband is now looking at me like I’ve started speaking Mandarin.  “What, now? Wouldn’t it be easier to make the sandwich, then cut it?”

“Well, yes, but he won’t eat it if he sees peanut butter or jelly bulging between the bread slices.  So, if you cut it first, it works better.  Don’t put too much in it either, or it will ooze when he bites into it, too.”

Now his expression reads, Are you kidding me with this?  I smile like what I've just finished explaining is totally normal, because in my world, it totally is. 

Twenty minutes later my husband comes upstairs to change.  The boys have been very quiet.  He tells me they’re eating and watching one of the recorded episodes of Chuggington that are hogging up all the space on our DVR.   I’m glad they aren’t giving Dad a hard time for once (we’re currently completely entrenched in the NO! MOMMY DO IT! stage.  YAY me!).  As I’m heading back downstairs, my husband tells me that the Little One didn’t like the ooze-factor of his sandwich, but that he had successfully convinced him to eat it anyway.  Score one for Dad - I'm impressed!

I walk into the kitchen. 

“Mommy!” It’s the Little One.  As I walk toward him, I notice half his sandwich is gone, but the other half remains untouched.  “I not eating dis oder train.  Peaner butter is oozin' out.”