Wash Your Feet

I’m sitting on the floor right outside the bathroom door as my girls take a bath. A few feet, far enough away to capture a moment to myself. They are having a rare quiet, calm moment. They must be tired. There are half minute bouts of silence, a pause in their singing voices, the waving of the water only audible.

Whenever I leave them to play by themselves for a moment in the bath, the floor is a splash. I wonder which toy that was that hit the floor? A hollow hard bounce. Perhaps it was a boat cup.

boat cup



“Can we have some more water?”


I took the moment to wash them. They smell of coconuts and apples. Sometimes the children are cooperative with their washing, some nights it is a struggle. Tonight it was a dumping water on the head kind of yelly wash as Fern did not wish a traditional and relaxing dip of the head in water. Ollie wished to briefly mock her for my reaction:  a stern stare and the statement of her name.

They are both tired. And I’m sitting down, the same. (drop head, sigh.) Oh.



“Will you wash my feet?”


“Will you wash my feet?”

Ollie loves to have her feet washed. She slouches in the water, smiles and giggles and sings songs about stinky feet, stinky feet. Fern, not stubborn just now, let me wash her feet, too.  She babbles a whisper, she is a breath of sleepiness now.

“Mama? Everybody has feet right?”

“Well, no. Not everybody has feet.”

“Why not?”

There was a brief explanation of prosthesis, and a genuine concern for the footless.  Therein discovered, an appreciation of the limbs.

Some people don’t have feet, and I am lucky to only have been chased out of time.

The girls are screaming now and and whining breezes, too loud for my corner. The short peace of bath is over.

I’m going to go mop them up.

Brush them up. Dress them up.

Give a sip of water. Bookend them.

Kiss their jolly heads, lay them down.

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