Metrosexuals in the House

Deal is currently in the bathroom with Bird. They have become miniature metrosexuals, favoring a shower everyday. We have four body sprayers in the master bath shower, and the shower is plenty big for 3-4 people to shower off chlorine and lake muck. The boys love squirting my various bottles of shampoo, exfoliator, body wash, gel, sugar scrub, and other such things that smell yummy and should really be left for the mother, the only woman, in the house to indulge in. Why, oh why, will they not use the California Baby stuff or Burt's Bees concotions I spent a fortune on?

They have always loved to watch Mac Daddy shave. Now they each stand on either side of him like obedient dogs awaiting a pat behind the ear and patiently wait for their turn to shave. This involves a quarter size dollop of shaving cream and a cotton ball to rub it off. They boys stand side by side cautiously rubbing that cotton ball as if it would really cut a vein. Then they run to me, cheeks pointing upward, begging me to feel how smooth they are. I suppose this display of manliness compensates for the times I let them choose one toe on each foot to paint red, magenta, coral, or whatever hue is in for the season. They are sporting a deep brick red on their big toes at the moment. I don't anticipate any bullies taking out my kid at kindergarten or preschool recess, but I do realize this practice will have to stop soon.

And Bird. Oh Bird. He stands in front of the mirror with his preferred purple (It MUST be the purple one, no, not the blue, I said NOT THE BLUE ONE!, and definitely not the pink one, no, I won't use pink, the PURPLE one is the ONLY one that will work, eeeeeggaaadddsss!!!). Apparently all combs are not created equally.

Deal uses his shower time to try to juggle his testicles. Lord knows what creeps will find me now that I've written "testicles" here. Anyway, Deal has always had a wandering hand. I'm afraid of what he'll be doing once he's in seventh grade hiding out in his room for an entire afternoon. So far he goes up to his room and says he wants to play all alone, but I know he's up there in the rocking chair sucking the hell out of his thumb. I bust him every time. "Ball" wasn't his first word for nothin'.

So this morning, as I write this, the boys are in the shower. Mac Daddy is standing by with the Spiderman and Thomas hooded towels. Licensed character shit is fine for the things the public does not see (towels, underwear, sheets even). But I don't want my kids to be sporting licensing mania to the Nth degree. No Spiderman backpack, but I did cave for the Batman lunchbox. And so I digress.

This morning Deal is fondling the hell out of his little balls. It must be a combination of fascination, curiosity, and well, old fashioned, it-just-feels-good. After squeezing those suckers around for a bit, he looked up with those gloriously long eyelashes beaded with water and asked, "If I squeeze my tenders too hard will they pop out?"

Our eyeballs almost popped out from laughing.