Twinfamy

As I finished rinsing off in the shower (feel free to imagine me with a six-pack instead of the slight gut I’ve developed from drinking them), my son requested one last drawing on the shower’s fogged-up glass walls. “‘Nother one, Daddy. Happy star.”

This is our new fun thing we do when Daddy showers–I take drawing requests while he stands on the other side of the glass, giddily retracing them with his fingers and going apeshit crazy if Daddy doesn’t draw a new one at least every thirty seconds. This, of course, extends my already-too-leisurely-for-my-wife’s-taste showering time. (See, I like to ease into my morning by staring blankly into space for ten minutes until I remember, Oh right, I’m in the shower and should probably get started on the whole cleaning thing.) And I’m sure she very much enjoys being the bad guy and reminding the two little boys in her life to stop goofing around with shower-wall artwork because we’re already running late. (Love you, babe!)

However, on this particular morning there was plenty of time for happy stars because my wife had left to run errands with my daughter, giving me a rare opportunity for some father-son quality time. Sure, I get to spend plenty of time with my kids since I’m home with them for half of the week, but 99% of that is with both competing for my attention. Seldom is anything ever all about one of my kids, and a lot of the time I’m reacting to whoever’s more cranky, hungry, or likely to climb a high chair and cannonball into the kitchen tile. That’s why my wife and I make an effort to split up and spend some one-on-one time with each of them.

It’s always such a blast. Every time, I notice new things about whichever kid I’m with–new words they’ve learned, nuances about their personalities–things that are harder to pick up on when I’m splitting my attention between them. And it’s during these times that I realize how quickly they’re growing into two independent, very different little people.

Fulfilling my son’s request (a “happy star” is a cross-bred star and happy face), I turned off the shower and dried off while my son pointed at the star. “Like it,” he smiled.

“Is that a good one, buddy?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Good one.”

The towel now around my waist, I made my way to the sink with my son close behind and leaned over toward the mirror to put in my contacts. I instantly felt a tiny finger poking my armpit.

“Oh no!” my son lamented. “What happened?”

It quickly occurred to me that my son was noticing my armpit hair for the first time.

He looked up at me, very concerned, and said, “Hair. Up there.”

I had to laugh. “Don’t worry, Buddy. Daddy’s okay. That’s just Daddy’s armpit hair. It’s like how Daddy gets hair on his face.”

He squinted, mulling this over, and then tried out his new word:

“Arm-bitch hair.”

I did my best not to fall over laughing, and composing myself, replied, “No, no, Buddy. It’s armpit hair.”

“Arm-bitch hair,” he nodded matter-of-factly, as if to say, “I know, Daddy. That’s what I said.”

“No, buddy, listen to Daddy. Arm-PIT-tuh.”

But it was no use. He’d already locked in his interpretation and proceeded to do what he does now every time he learns a new word or phrase–repeating it over and over again with emphasis on a different syllable each time while marching around the house: “ARM-bitch hair. Arm-bitch HAIR. Arm-BITCH hair…”

“Fantastic, Buddy. I can’t wait to show Mommy what we learned when she gets home.”

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If not, I think my son just called you a “pit.”