Tonight, the boys took their second ride in the new bathtub. As the most exciting piece of the new master bathroom, it's really a grown-up tub, equipped with "chromatherapy" lights that change color and 46 tiny, but powerful, jets. But since we stole the space for the tub from the formerly pink bathroom in the hall, the boys now get to bathe in our master bathroom until they are ready for daily showers. The punk skipped to the bathroom and the basher ran as fast as his skinny little legs could carry him; we love tub time! As the punk did his business on the other end of the bathroom, I disrobed the basher and set him gently into the warm water. Since the boys so enjoyed the colored lights last time, I thought I would turn them on again. I grabbed the remote control (I know, it's ridiculous, right? A waterproof, floating remote control) and pressed the power button. Suddenly, the bathtub was a tempest of raging waves and giant bubbles! I didn't realize that I couldn't turn on the control panel without immediately starting the jets. The poor basher boy screamed bloody murder and pulled himself up to cling to the side of the tub. With the frequency level of his shrieks, he must have been sure of his eminent demise. Then I heard a yell and a frightened cry from the punk on the toilet. Sympathy tears. I reached over the tub and pressed the power button on the control panel on the wall above the tub. (Yes, I know. Ridiculous.) Then I pulled the basher out of the death trap and wrapped him in a towel to comfort him, then comforted his big brother too.
Finally, with the tears stanched, the jets off, and the colored lights set to scan slowly and therapeutically through the colors of the rainbow, I placed both boys into the luxuriously warm water. The basher was still a bit touchy though, and before I could wash his hair, he was scrambling to get out again. I told the punk that I would be back in 2 minutes, and took the basher to his room to get dressed into his adorable tight-fitting pajamas that make his diapered bum look like an apple with two toothpicks sticking down as legs. As soon as I got him zipped up, I heard the loud whoosh! of the jets and a terrified scream from the punk. I hurriedly followed the shrieks of "Mama! Mama!" to find the punk crying in the middle of what looked like a witch's cauldron of clear, bubbling liquid. As I again grabbed the remote control, the basher joined his brother in a return of very loud sympathy tears.
Oh, the perils of modern technology.