Matthew is hungry. It's slightly past his bedtime and, therefore, his last bottle of the day is a little late. I've bathed him and he smells like Shea body wash. His brother is still in the tub so I lean against the wall in the hallway, staring into the bathroom, and gather Little Buddy in my arms. As he pulls thirstily on the bottle--the one with the frogs--The Rock Star repeatedly floods a boat with a cup of water. Then he yanks the boat up out of the water and declares, as the water runs from its pores, "Kinda looks like rain."
And it does.
I contemplate my contentment. These two boys who've made me a mother have also bathed our home with joy. Garrett's eyes get big. "What's that noise?" I raise my eyebrows as if to say, Your own incessant chatter? And he continues, "It's Daddy. Or the trash man." I hear the garage door close beneath us. If it's even possible, Garrett's eyes get bigger. They are round like saucers and he squeals, "It is my daddy."
As Troy passes by the bottom of the stairs I decide to mess with my eldest. I lower my voice to an eerie decibel and mutter, "It's not daddy." Then I pause for dramatic effect. "It's...the boogie man."
The Rock Star narrows his eyes and calls my bluff. "Mommy, it's not the booger man!"