Saturday night, I was doing a little reflecting on the various duties of Mothers and Fathers. I don't know how it is in your house, but in my house, it's Mother who bathes the boys, and if I have my way, that's the way it's going to stay. On a recent Saturday, I had watched my three tigers from eight in the morning until eight at night, and in that period, they had moved everything that wasn't nailed down, been on top of everything they could climb, been over and under everything that had clearance, jumped from everything they could get up to, been hit by stones, sticks, bats, slabs, pots, cans, pans and hands. They had been run down by bikes, run over by wagons, and two of them had been thumped on the head with buckets of dirt. When they came in for their baths, I was firmly convinced I had fathered three pretty sturdy young bucks. After all, look at the abuse they had taken all day. It took me 2 minutes to learn that they were softies. When my wife got them in that water...BROTHER! I counted the bloodcurdling screams of agony. I got 15 from Gordon, 27 for Martin, and 13 from Gerald. There was no part of their body they didn't claim was injured beyond repair. They were broken, beaten, scuffed, bleeding, poisoned, fractured, maimed, sprained and suffering everything from seven-year-itch to bog spavin, and every ailment was grievously agitated by the application of soap and water.
Mother, you earn your keep if you bath a boy or two every night. They may be young rippers all day long, but when the sun goes down and the bath water is drawn, when action gets underway in the chamber of horrors, I’d just as soon face a firing squad, as three grimy boys who need nothing so much as soap, water and sponge.
So here's to all mothers who can and do tame the roughest and toughest of boys and make them into softies and weeping sissies with only a bar of soap and bath tub full of water!
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