So, I'm sitting here on my bed ready to do some serious blogging. In walks Faith. For some curious reason, she decided to slather some lotion on my leg.
"Hey, that feels good. Will you rub it all over my leg?"
So, she did one leg and then the other, with only a few odd comments like, "You should shave more often," and "Your legs smell like rotten pop." (Seriously.)
Soon, Evan wanted to join in, so I gave him the job of massaging my feet with the lotion - a job my husband wouldn't do if I paid him. Evan did a pretty good job, if you consider using about 3 quarts of lotion on my feet a good job.
Ahhh, this was turning out to be a nice and relaxing evening. A 4- and a 6-year-old, massaging their mother with complete naivete, like it was a treat for them. But then Faith caught on.
She even said, "Mom, we sit here and do all this for you and you do nothing!" Never mind the fact that I DID serve them ALL their meals in the living room while they watched TV. All day. (It was a sick day, remember.) And while they were recuperating all day, I cleaned the kitchen and dining room, did all the dishes and a few loads of laundry, and I even managed to squeeze in a nap (uh, wait. . .that last part probably doesn't help my case very much).
But I didn't say anything to Little Miss Smarty Pants. I just grabbed a blob of lotion and started on her feet, while Evan was still doing mine. Then she piped up one more time, "Hey, you're getting your feet massaged and I'm getting mine massaged, but who's doing Evan's?"
"Sssh. Don't say anything. Maybe he won't notice."