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Please note: this story is written in the third person because one of the main characters simply can’t be me, and the other character is definitely not me.
It’s been suggested that I make that particular fact clear up front, so there it is.
Also, the original title, “Static Electricity, Paperclips, and Convex Curves” has been completely been blown away by a friend’s suggestion of the title that you see above.
So with that, we now return you to our regularly scheduled story, already in progress…
Nerds and Girls.
Not only nerds, but socially inept nerds trying to impress said girls…
And of course, that brings us to our story, which happened some years back, less than 20 miles from where I’m writing this now.
By way of introduction, I’m sure there are many, many ways one could describe a nerd, but the common theme I remember noticing at the time was that often nerds were absolutely brilliant when it came to communicating with computers, and at the same time, absolutely unable to communicate with other humans.
Note – this didn’t mean they didn’t occasionally have the desire to communicate with other humans; they just didn’t have the ability to do it effectively. When it came to male Nerds communicating with female Non-Nerds (anti-Nerds?) – that effectiveness dropped to absolute zero.
As a professor in college was fond of saying, “You will see this material again.”
Enter Stage Left: A software engineer (um… Nerd) working at a rather large software company with a name synonymous with, oh, say, really, really small squishy things.
Seated at stage right: The receptionist for the building our Nerd worked in.
Note: The receptionist is astoundingly attractive, and our Nerd found himself absolutely smitten with her. He, as often happens with males, wanted to impress her, but none of the small talk worked. He’d talk about all the esoteric technical things he was good at, and she would smile and nod politely until he finished his attempt at communication for the day. When he was finished, she’d usually say she had to get back to work, and he’d slowly walk away, trying to hide his dejection, scuffing his feet on the carpet as he went.
This went on for quite a while.
Summer turned into Fall.
Fall turned to Winter, (he was pretty determined) and while the heat in the building kicked on, there was no heat, nor were there even sparks, between our intrepid Nerd and the Beautiful Receptionist.
This was about to change.
One day, as he scuffed his way to the door to get out of the reception area and into the office area, he reached out to open the door and got a horrific shock.
He’d built up a charge of static electricity because of all the scuffing on the dry carpet, and reaching for the door handle completed the circuit, and sparks literally flew.
Anyone having been around computers for a bit knows that static electricity is bad.
Nursing his sore hand, he made his way back to his office, a land of straight lines, of monitors, computers, and keyboards and sat at his desk to think this through. He put his feet up on that desk, and pondered a bit, trying to figure this spark problem out, and how to solve it, idly bending a paper clip into oblivion as he did so. He crossed his legs and thought some more, and in the end, poked the paper clip into the side of his shoe.
Somewhere, Thomas Edison’s ghost handed out another light bulb as the brain cells in our Nerd’s head put two and two together.
See, static electricity is created because electricity is generated but has no place to go. To oversimplify it greatly, clouds rubbing together (think thunderstorm), or shoes rubbing on a dry carpet, can create enough static electricity to make some pretty brilliant sparks.
But if you figure out a way to allow that electricity to bleed off a bit, you don’t have static anything.
And that’s exactly what our nerd figured out. He left the paperclip stuck in the side of his shoe, with the bent part dragging on the carpet.
He then scuffed his way to the door that had caused him trouble, and reached for the handle.
He walked away – took the paperclip out and did it again.
Scuff scuff scuff scuff scuff…. <SPARK!>
Okay – time to confirm it, to, as they say in software development and testing, “Can you repro(duce) it?”
Scuff scuff scuff scuff scuff….
… No spark. Hmmm…
Scuff scuff scuff scuff scuff…. <SPARK!>
But his testing was proving that his idea worked. He wasn’t the first to come up with this idea, but he came up with this on his own, and he was proud.
He had something that would impress people.
He could fire sparks at them at will – and he could turn the sparks on and off with a simple paperclip.
He could impress peop –
He could impress the receptionist.
He left the office and left the land of the straight lines, and went to the land of the curves, where the curves were all in exactly the right places. He was both smitten, and a man on a mission. He was going to impress this receptionist, and she was going to really smile at him now.
So he tried to explain it to her – and it didn’t work. In fact, it was, as is often the case, easier to illustrate than it was to explain, so he convinced her to come out from behind her desk so he could illustrate it for her.
So while explaining – he scuffed his way over to the door without the paperclip, and touched the handle.
And she saw, and heard, the spark.
Then he did the same with the paperclip back in his shoe, and he touched the handle again.
But wait – she seemed interested! Our nerd was on his way to scoring – uh – something… Even he wasn’t sure what it might be, but he’d never kept her attention this long before, ever. He was going to show her how brilliant he was, that he could control the spark, and that it wouldn’t spark, that he could (oh, dare he?) touch her, and it wouldn’t spark.
He was going to show her, yeah, that was it.
Actions speak louder than words, right?
So he scuffed, vigorously, from the door all the way over to where she was standing. Oh, this would absolutely prove that his idea worked, that he was smart, that he – that he could impress a – a girl.
He scuffed hard, harder than he’d ever scuffed, just to prove the power of the paperclip…
…which would have proven its power had it been in his shoe and not lying on the floor behind him where it had fallen out.
(Folks, that’s known as foreshadowing)
He got right up to her, and said “see?” and reached out his finger just to point – but it was pointed at her, and, given that he had entered the land of the curves, his finger was a few safe inches from one of them.
…had there been a paperclip.
However, the vigorous scuffing had created such a charge in him that one could say there was a spark between them.
Oh yes, there was a spark…
Just like before, she saw it.
And heard it.
And this time, she felt it.
And it was in the wrong, wrong, WRONG place.
The surprise on our Nerd’s face as he looked at his finger in disbelief – the ‘smoking gun’, as it were was more than matched by the absolute shock (pardon the pun) on the face of our receptionist.
While our Nerd looked back to see what had happened, our receptionist was experiencing a pain the likes of which she’d never, ever experienced, in a – a location which had never experienced such pain.
While she was still processing this, our Nerd found the source of the problem. He’d noticed the paperclip was gone, and retraced his steps to find it on the carpet. He got it, and came back to her, beaming, holding it up like a trophy, “I found it! I figured out what went wrong!” – and as his eyes focused from the paperclip to her face behind it, the expression that had started off as mild interest, but was rapidly transitioning through pain, a short detour at embarrassment, and then at the moment his eyes finally focused on that face of hers, came out of that detour and arrived fully at rage.
The beaming, triumphant look on our Nerd’s face was frozen completely solid by our receptionist, who turned around, and with her arms firmly crossed, walked back behind her desk, to the Nerd Free zone, and focused on her monitor… her phone, ANYTHING but him.
She couldn’t even look at him. She wouldn’t look at him.
Our Nerd, his frozen triumphant look thawing into an agonizing realization of what had just happened, was embarrassed beyond belief, and any attempt at apologies were immediately frozen again.
He realized that as attractive as the land of the curves was, it was a dangerous place for someone only used to straight lines…
He sighed the sigh of the deflated, the sigh of the lost, the sigh of the forlorn, and slowly turned back toward the door, twirling the paperclip in his hand.
And as the curtain came down on our little drama, the door, as if sensing what had happened, didn’t even spark as he opened it, going back to the land of the straight lines.
Where things were safe.
I’m posting this on Maundy Thursday – the Thursday between Palm Sunday, when Jesus was welcomed into Jerusalem, and Good Friday, when He was killed there. This is the day when that Last Supper you’ve seen in pictures happened, and later that evening, when Peter, one of Jesus’ strongest supporters and disciples, denied even knowing him – . Tomorrow, those who celebrate Easter will remember Good Friday, and the crucifixion. Thursday and Friday are the lowest points of the Christian calendar – but it is Sunday – Easter – when we are shown that Grace can abound, that there is hope. It is through the remembrance of that Last Supper Jesus had with His disciples, what we now call Holy Communion, that through confession and repentance, we find forgiveness, even for those who feel there is no hope, or forgiveness.
The following story, for anyone watching as it happened, took about as long as it takes to sing the verses below – but inside me – I was transported through thousands of miles, and hundreds of years – to places where time, and distance, were absolutely irrelevant.
With that, please, as you may ponder the significance of Easter, I submit:
It was Sunday, in a large, old church, in a big city. The pastor had called for Holy Communion, and as he got out the bread and the – in this case – wine, the notes gently flowed while the organist cleared the pipes to play. But these weren’t just notes that had come from the organ to our ears, nor were they words that were just now coming from our lips. They had come a great distance, through many years, having been written by a man named John Newton, who was exactly what he said he was in the second line of the song, a wretch.
But the story in the song is one of redemption, of John Newton coming to an understanding that this concept of Grace – in which we are given something we do not deserve. And the words, written by him in 1779 in England, composed with notes by William Walker in South Carolina in 1835, came together in this church, on this morning.
The organ sang the first notes out, and old bones and pews creaked equally as people stood, each heading to the aisle to walk to the front to receive Holy Communion, their chance to remember in the symbol of the Bread and the Cup the forgiveness that was theirs because of what Christ had done for them. Worn shoes shuffled forward on an equally worn carpet as they sang, not with gusto, but with the tired reverence that comes with age.
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
I was one of those shuffling, and heard the voices singing – some gray with years, some with the color of youth, many of them older, first generation Americans, for whom English had clearly been a a second language.
And suddenly, even though I was still shuffling – I felt I wasn’t in this church in this big city anymore.
I was transported to a land of tile roofs and cobblestone streets
A cool mist touches my face as I find myself stepping carefully on a foggy sidewalk.
As I walk, I’m overcome by the wonderful smell of simmering corned beef wafting out of a kitchen window. I follow the sound of singing around a corner to a church, where the voices and harmonies show a faith and fellowship that has lasted through the ages.
An odd tinkling sound reveals itself to be from a young man, sitting on the sidewalk with a tin cup, begging. All questions are answered by the scar across his face. The tinkling comes from the people walking by toward the church, as they put some of their Sunday offering directly where it’s needed.
He smiles and blesses them as they go on.
We shuffled forward a bit:
T’was grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believed!
I’m confused, for a moment – as I find myself suddenly transported to what is clearly a prison, to a cold, damp cell, with only one small, high window. A church bell rings in the distance, and the prisoner in the cell has experienced something not all prisoners do. He’s finally not only understood the significance of the mistake that brought him here, but has experienced a remorse that can only be answered by forgiveness. This does not mean that there are no consequences to his mistake, but there is forgiveness. His quiet prayer is as sincere as that from any pulpit, and the light and warmth coming into that dark cell at that moment isn’t just from the sun.
We shuffled on, and started to sing the next verse…
Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
A steam whistle blows. A locomotive hisses by, slowing for the station, and a young soldier nervously holds onto the open window as his now gray eyes search for the home he left two years ago. In those eyes are the exhaustion of a thousand battles he’d wanted nothing to do with, and both the longing, and creeping doubt of seeing his family again.
He looks at his battered watch, the strap long gone, and knows that at this time, the Sunday pork roasts will be cooking, wafting their delicious smells out into the street. It’s always been the first smell he smelled after getting out of the train station. It’s a symbol of home, and this time, the war over, he should be home for good.
The train clatters and bumps to a stop. He gets up, and like all travelers, reaches for his bags and automatically walks toward the nearest exit, his uniform helping to part the respectful crowd of people so he can get through easier. As he steps to the platform, he stops in the middle of the river of people pouring out behind and around him, and stands on his toes, looking around to get his bearings – so much had been destroyed in the war – and to see if anyone is there to meet him. He is tackled from one side by his younger brother and sister, with the excitement only younger siblings can have for an older one. The little brother, as little brothers do, wants to hear all about the battles. The little sister stands quietly until he kneels to her level. She hands him a small, soft object in a cloth napkin. It’s a slice of pork roast. THE pork roast. “Mama sagt, dass Du Heim kommen sollst, dass wir alle zusammen mit dir Mittags essen können.” He shares the slice with both of them, and as his little brother picks up the bags, he picks up his little sister, and they all run across the street to the still standing house, to the kitchen, to his family.
There is no shortage of hugs, no shortage of tears.
He is home.
The melody continued, and we shuffled another step…
The Lord has promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.
Again, I am transported – to a sidewalk near a church. As I stand there, looking left and right, a stooped old woman walks closer, uncomfortably using a new cane to support her. She passes me by, sobbing softly. The gold ring on her gnarled left hand tells the story. It is her first Sunday coming to church alone in nearly half a century, her husband who had sat beside her every Sunday for that many years, who stood at that altar in the radiance of youth and repeated the vows with her – ending with “…until death do us part…” had loved her – for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health – and he had fulfilled those vows to the very last one. He would never accompany her to church again, but church is where she needed to be on Sunday mornings, and church was where she would go. Someone who is obviously her daughter runs up to her and supports her, saying gently, “Oh maman, je suis sincèrement désolée. Je suis venue dès que j’ai su.”
The rest of the words are lost, as I hear the sound of voices singing, and feel myself being pulled away again.
We shuffled forward again…
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.
Again, I find myself near a church, with the bell ringing quietly, but closely. Only this time I’m in what’s known in some countries as the ‘churchyard’ – and the group of people, all dressed in heavy coats of dark colors to ward off the cold, have come to pay their last respects to one of their own. It is clear – even without understanding the language, that she was held in high regard by everyone there. It seemed, given the expressions of some, that they were now both relieved at the end of the suffering she had endured, and confused as to who would take her place, but one thing was certain, she had enriched their lives by her simple existence. She had enriched their lives by supporting them when they thought they were supporting her. And those looks on their faces told me her transition from this life to the next had been one of peace, of joy, and eventually of rest.
We shuffled forward one last step.
I was getting close to the front of the line now – and as we sang….
When we’ve been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’ve first begun.
I found myself in a large, old church, in a big city.
It was my turn for communion, and as I took the bread, and drank from the cup, that first verse came back to me…
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
If you’ve been reading for awhile, you know that a whole LOT of my stories have something to do with my cars in some way, and this one does – albeit peripherally. It has to do with friendships, Saabs, and cookie jars – and it’s a very honest story. When I started writing it, I didn’t know where it would go – and then I realized it had a second part – so I wrote that – and the two parts together gave it almost a synergy… So having given you that as an intro – allow me to introduce “Dirty Fingernails, Paint Covered Overalls, and True Friends”
My first car was a 1965 Saab 95. 3 cylinders, two stroke, just like an outboard. At the time, I was learning so much – and there was so much to learn about it (translation: I knew so little about cars at the time) that for every hour I drove it, it’d take about that much maintenance, or more. Eventually I got it to be relatively stable – but even so, it was a challenge to own this beastie.
One Saturday, as part of the routine at the time, I’d yanked the engine out of it (yes, “yanked” – you could do that with this car – take all the bolts loose, then grab the exhaust manifold in the right hand, the fuel pump in the left, do the hokey pokey, and yank the sucker out – really). I’d then fixed something on it it, and put it back in, and then driven the car to school on the following Monday.
At the school I went to at the time, a community college – we had a huge cafeteria with round tables for about 10 people, and a pretty regular group of us sat at this one table between classes to study, hang out, have lunch, chat – whatever.
I remember that Monday. I reached across the table for a pencil or something and someone saw that I still had grease under my fingernails that I just hadn’t been able to get completely out from the Saturday before – and this gal just absolutely freaked, then almost threw a pair of nail clippers at me and then went off on telling me that I needed to get new clothes and look better. This went on for a bit, and it was clear that trying to get a word in edgewise wasn’t going to work at all, so I let her rant for a while.
A really good friend took me aside and tried to help. He’d known me longer than they had, and tried to kind of help or smooth things out a bit by offering to take me to a fairly upscale clothing store – and I remember thinking,
“…and just WHO is going to pay for all this stuff to make me look acceptable in their eyes?”
I remember thinking they were incapable of seeing through the grease far enough to see why it was there. Not that I wanted to go to school dirty, but if you’ve ever worked on a car, getting grease under the fingernails is part of the process, and getting it out takes a little longer. I know now that there are things that can help with that, but I didn’t then. I also knew at that time that none of them would be able to do what I did – I’d gotten to the point where I could have the engine out in half an hour (well, 32 minutes) – from the time I shut it off to the time it was in the bed of my dad’s pickup truck – and I thought to myself that if I had a skill that would cause a little dirt under my fingernails to remain, I’d take that skill over “looking good for someone for whom that was the defining characteristic of whether I could be their friend” every time.
I left that table that day and never went back.
I studied in the library, not in the cafeteria…
But based on that experience, I decided to try something.
I dressed like crap for a quarter.
I wore old clothes.
I wore overalls I’d painted my Grampa’s barn in (trust me, the barn wasn’t the only thing that got paint on it)
I wore the boots I’d been wearing when I painted the barn (they’d started out black, they now looked like a negative of a leopard… that was an oops…)
I mean, I worked at looking crappy.
If it was nice, unstained, and untorn, I didn’t wear it.
Did I have nice clothes?
But that wasn’t the point, at all. I was going for the seriously crappy look, and I did absolutely everything on purpose. I wanted to prove something.
And honestly, it was pretty lonely for a bit. I remember that it was hard to do what I was doing, but I was stubborn enough to do it – and I kept at it.
A few weeks went by, and I found some new friends at the library who were pretty cool people, and who didn’t really seem to give a rip about what I wore, they were just cool folks, so I hung out with them. I remember one gal, Bonnie, was just gorgeous, and I was just stunned that she’d even be seen with me, but she didn’t seem to care, and it was really, really cool to see that these people didn’t care what I wore, or whether I had grease under my fingernails or not, they just liked me for who I was.
At the end of that quarter, I felt my point had been made, so at the beginning of the next quarter – I dressed a bit nicer – just because by that time, it was getting old, even for me.
And they noticed.
I remember Bonnie asking me what was up, and I told her – and the rest of my new friends. They were kind of surprised that they’d been unwitting participants in an impromptu social experiment, but I was honest with them. And they now had a friend who they knew, and who they liked, and who also now dressed a little more respectably, and I had friends I knew didn’t care about my fingernails – and – here’s what got me about that…
In that first group, nobody seemed to care what it took to get my fingernails like that – not that I wanted them filthy – but there is zero chance that anyone sitting at that table could have done what I did with a car – any car, much less a 1965 3 cylinder, two stroke Saab…
And that’s what made me mad.
It’s like they were looking at me like a cracked cookie jar. And they only saw the cracks, not the cookies inside.
Years later, I tried another experiment at another college, and it was almost the same experiment – from the other side.
Some of you guys reading this out there might get this. Just like in any college, you end up with a lot of friends – male, female, whatever. The university I went to had – well, far more than its share of nice looking young ladies. I remember being very shy about talking to them – and at the same time remember feeling quite bad about the – oh – how do we put this politely? – I was feeling rather bad about the feelings this “red blooded American boy” was having about these “red blooded American girls.” – Those feelings tended toward the whole objectifying the young ladies end of the spectrum, and I just didn’t like that in myself. So I thought about it for a bit, and realized that there was actually an inverse relationship between how well I knew the gals and how “red blooded” I felt about them. It was almost linear: The better I knew them, the more I thought of them as a human being and friend, and the less I thought of them as – well, objects.
So I tried to figure out how to solve this problem. I mean, each of these gals was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, etc… And while I was just as full of hormones as the next guy, but I just didn’t like objectifying them that way. At all.
And I wondered…
How could I stop thinking about all these nice looking young ladies in these inappropriate ways?
…and then I remembered…
I didn’t think of the girls that were my buddies that way…
And so – I remember picking one gal rather specifically (the gal I was most terrified of because she was the most gorgeous of the bunch, and therefore, I figured, totally unapproachable) – I’d chat with her in the foyer of the building before class (and was late to class more than once – heh – in fact, I remember one time, I’d just told her I had to get up to get to class and saw the whole class trooping down the stairs – I’d missed the class entirely…Well, I was majoring in communication at the time, and by golly, I was communicating… : )
…not that the prof saw it that way, mind you, but still…
One thing led to another, and Yolande and I became friends, nothing more than that, that had never been my goal, we simply became friends. And while the fact that we were now friends didn’t change the fact that she was drop dead gorgeous one whit – it did change something in me. I saw her as Yolande, my friend, instead of seeing her – and thinking of her – in ways that would make her feel uncomfortable, and me feel ashamed. I haven’t seen her in years – but I still remember how well that little experiment worked, and how much fun that friendship was, a friendship that wouldn’t have started had I not wanted to be, as we used to say back then, “just friends.”
And what’s interesting is these two stories go together…
In the first – people were distracted by what they saw – because they didn’t like it, and didn’t bother to look past it to see what was inside.
In the second – I was distracted (oh, Lordy was I distracted – but… I digress) by what I saw – not because I liked it, but because I liked it in ways that I really shouldn’t have in that context – and just like the first one, I didn’t bother to look past the outside to see the person inside.
It’s kind of funny – this story also answers the question one of my college buddies once asked about “Why does Tom constantly have all these gorgeous women around him?”
Some were buddies to start with just because I just liked them…
And some ended up being buddies because I wanted to just like them.
It ended up being a serious win-win… : )
But it taught me a huge amount about people.
What they looked like, whether it was good or bad, gorgeous or plain, didn’t necessarily translate into what kind of a friend they’d make.
And it taught me to take gentle chances – because often, I found, the people I was scared of talking to wanted a friend just as much as I did.
A quiet time, when the cares of the day are soaked away by a warm, relaxing soak in the tub…
…for people without kids, that is…
* * *
When my son Michael was much younger, we used to take baths together, you know, a father-son kind of a thing…
Well, he’s gotten bigger, and unfortunately, so have I, and so getting the two of us in the tub at the same time isn’t as easy as it used to be. So I’ve taken to sitting on the edge of the tub with my feet in it, having taken my shoes and socks off and having rolled up my pants…
That said, one night, many years ago, he was taking a bath, and as is often the case, he called out, “Papa, can you come in here?” (Actually, it was “Papa, kannsch du do hehr komma, bitte?” – he still knows some of his German – Southern German to be clear.)
Sometimes he wants someone to read him a book while he’s in the tub, sometimes he just wants someone to play with.
This time, he wanted someone to play with…
Okay, I thought, what are my options? There was a TV program I was considering watching, that will probably be rerun, and I have the childhood of my little boy, which will not.
It was a no brainer…
So I went in there, and we’ve got some old shampoo bottles there (which make far better bath toys than anything else. You can make boats out of them, submarines, bombs (filling them and then dropping them into the tub – they make a pretty good splash when dropped by a creative 6 year old), and most of all, squirt guns…)
I was planning on just kneeling down beside the tub and playing with him, grabbing one of the shampoo bottles and kind of having a squirt-gun war… But when I got into the bathroom, he said, “Can you put your feet in the tub?”
Well, that would have meant taking my socks off, rolling my pants up, and in general getting ready. He would have had fun, and that would have been that.
On the other hand, I thought, “what if I just get in there with him?”
So, right after he said that, I stepped into the tub, socks, pants and all. He was looking down at the time, heard the splash of my left foot, and saw something just slightly unfamiliar at the bottom of the tub.
With a sock on it.
At the bottom of a hole in the water.
Attached to a leg.
With pants on it.
The water splashed back, and he followed the splash and the leg up to the rest of me with this look that was a mixture of, “No, really? and “You’ve GOT to be kidding me” and “WOW!!! This is COOL!!!”
Then he started laughing that wonderful belly laugh that just makes your heart melt…
We had fun…
We found that if you have the shampoo bottles that have the little button on top to push down to get the shampoo out, you can actually take that whole unit off without taking the actual lid off and have a really good squirt gun.
So we did.
…and started squirting at the little lids that were now floating in the tub, the other stuff in the tub, and each other.
Within a minute I was significantly wetter than I’d planned on being.
We called Cindy, who had that, “Oh, you boys…” kind of look on her face…
So we went back to squirting each other…
Now after awhile my pants were pretty darned wet, and it was getting close to “Bedtime for Bonzo”, so I got out, and tried to take the pants off.
Now if you’ve ever tried to take wet pants off you know that it’s a bit harder than taking dry ones off, because they cling to your legs and won’t let go.
Michael watched with amusement as I made this discovery
So there I am, hopping around in the bathroom on one foot, with my very wet socks sklorching every time I hit the floor, part of one semi removed pant leg flying about, splattering water everywhere, and Michael’s laughing…
After flopping and splashing and sklorching and kicking for a very intense minute or so (it was probably less, but it sure seemed that long…) I managed to get my right foot out of the pants leg and onto the floor.
But in that last desperate kick to get my foot out and catch my balance, I very skillfully kicked the pants leg into the toilet.
This couldn’t be happening.
Had he not been in the tub, he would have been rolling on the floor.
As it was, he was laughing that laugh that you just can’t get from anywhere but a small, happy child.
So, I got me dried off and changed, got him dried off and changed, and then got him bundled off into bed.
Such a relaxing time…