Four minutes and thirty-one seconds.

That’s the length of hubby’s marketing clip that he was listening to while we put on shoes and I tightened my ponytail.

We were headed out for a pajama and DVD drive. Hubby wanted to run by the book store and we figured the kids could wind down to Jungle Book in the car. 

Four minutes and thirty-one seconds with our bedroom door closed.

All of the kids were pajama-ed and shod. Dinner was put away. The cat was asleep.

And yet, four minutes and thirty-one seconds is, it seems, just exactly long enough.

I came out and was greeted by the almost 11-month-old grinning up at me.

With her pretty, fuzzy, little blonde head dripping.

I looked at hubby.

“It’s never a good sign when the baby’s head is wet.”

I walked to the living room with hesitant trepidation.

DinoBoy jumped up and proudly stood tall. His head dripping also. He grinned and proudly exclaimed “Mamma! I combed my hair!”

I breathed a sigh of relief. That was no big deal. The bathroom sink was almost never dry anyway.

“Did you comb the baby’s hair too?” I asked, smiling at his sweet, elated little face.


Then I heard it. What I had taken 10 short seconds to believe might not be.

The result of four minutes and thirty-one seconds.

That’s when SunshineGirl’s little gravely voice piped up from behind me:

“Yep, mamma! We combed baby’s hair in the toilet!”


The End


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