Micro Chronicles of The Three Goodwillie Goofs: Beckett Gets Hosed

Mom is out with Pebe and friends drinking wine, sharing small plates of this and that - forget the main we were talking about blah blah blah, oh my gosh, and, at length, about I don't even care.

So, just me and the boys tonight. After an evening bike ride with Big Boy to Little Man Ice Cream downtown (photo right), we're on the late dinner schedule (more about the menu in later micro chronicles). And the most popular activity of late for the big boys is shower time in mommy and daddy's room. Even 11 month old Beckett enjoys crawling into a nice not-too-hot shower, inhaling the relaxing mist and exhaling the stress of yet another day on mysterious earth, enthralled in utter fascination by the existence of his own hand, consumed by the bewildering functionality of his wrist and his commanding control over the mind boggling joint, and astonish by the taste - a note of maple syrup, I believe - and texture of a used paper napkin discarded down yonder in the lower plane of the babysphere.

Back to the evening's tale of thy three lads:
I marched the crew upstairs as we said our, "Love you Mommy"s and asked our "So you will be home in the morning, right?"s to the leaving ladies, stripped them all down to birthday attire and chucked them into our fancy double headed glass shower enclosure. Before I had a chance to yank off my sweaty cycling gear, Kelly led the trio of giggling, goofs in a symphony of cacophonous, shrill, shrieking that I feared would cause alarm with the neighbors and get the police dispatched to our door to investigate a possible 187. It was a riot to watch the performance of KRB - they were clearly having the time of their lives - but difficult for my auditory sensors to endure.

Sitting on his plump rump at the foot of Conductor Kelly, Baby Beckett was giving all his heart, soul, and lungs could lyrically deliver, hollering note for note along with his two big bros. The symphonic performance disintegrated to nervous giggles and then unbridled cackling when Kelly opened his own little the flood gate, accidentally shooting a point-blank, four-second-long, hose blast of urine all over Beckett.

From the dry side of the quarter inch thick glass pane, I pointlessly commanded, "Kelly, don't pee on your bother!" I have a feeling that's not the last time I will issue this order in vain.

More Micro Chronicles of The Three Goodwillie Goofs coming soon...